FOUR  YEARS 
IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 


FOUR  YEARS 
IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 


ADVENTURES  AS  A  WORKING  WOMAN 
IN  NEW  YORK 


NEW    YORK 

CHAKLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1921 


COPTBIQHT,    1921,    BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEB'S  SONS 


Published  October.  1921 


PRINTED  AT 

THE   SCRIBNER  PRESS 

NEW  YORK,  U.  S.  A. 


Si 
SISTER    WEE    WEE 


TAMPA,  FLORIDA 

March  8th.  19521 


1561153 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PAGE 

I.  FOR  POLLY  PRESTON'S  SAKE       ........  3 

II.  MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 11 

III.  SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS 24 

IV.  AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD 37 

V.  HUMAN  COOTIES 51 

VI.  GOOD  HUNTING-GROUND 77 

VII.  FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES 86 

VIII.  ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS 101 

IX.  RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME 114 

X.  TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS      ....  129 

XI.  I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 143 

XII.  JACKALS  FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING 157 

XIII.  "MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE" 174 

XIV.  STAMPING-GROUND  OF  THE  MONKEY-PEOPLE  ....  185 
XV.  THE  HEART  OF  THE  JUNGLE 201 

XVI.  BURROWING  IN 207 

XVII.  THE  SCOURGE 225 

XVIII.  JIST  DOGS!        235 

XIX.  FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS 246 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.  A  PEST  HOUSE? 256 

XXI.  FOECINQ  THE   GOOSE  TO  LAY  MORE   DOLLARS        .       .       .  265 

XXII.  WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS 275 

XXIII.  LEADERS  OF  THE  HERD 288 

XXIV.  THE  GALL  OF  THE  YOKE 300 

XXV.  THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  .  311 


FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 


FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

CHAPTER  I 
FOR  POLLY  PRESTON'S  SAKE 

THE  evening  of  November  8,  1916,  I  walked  out  of  the 
National  Arts  Club  and  into  the  underbrush  of  the  greatest 
jungle  of  civilization — I  entered  the  world  of  the  unskilled 
working  woman  of  New  York  City.  Though  a  sudden 
move,  such  an  adventure  had  been  in  my  mind  for  weeks. 
When  thinking  over  the  plot  of  my  fifth  novel  my  conscience 
had  demanded : 

"Why  don't  you  go  out  and  get  first-hand  experience 
for  Polly  Preston  ?  She  is  a  child  of  your  own  brain.  You 
know  her  temperamentally  as  well  as  mentally  and  physi- 
cally. You  should  be  able  to  judge  how  she  would  react 
under  given  conditions.  Come,  be  a  sport !  Get  out  and 
see  what  Polly  will  really  be  up  against." 

When  the  opportunity  presented  itself  on  the  above- 
mentioned  date  my  reason  for  accepting  it  was  for  the  single 
purpose  of  getting  material  for  my  novel— not  because  of 
any  special  interest  in  working  people,  either  men  or  women, 
as  a  class.  Indeed,  it  had  always  been  my  faith  that  they 
who  scrub  floors  or  dig  ditches  are  only  fit  to  scrub  floors 
or  dig  ditches — humanity,  like  water,  finds  its  own  level. 

The  clock  over  the  main  entrance  of  the  Grand  Central 
Station  was  on  the  stroke  of  twelve  when  I  passed  under 
it  on  my  way  to  the  woman's  waiting-room.  Glancing 
around  to  select  the  most  desirable  of  the  unoccupied  chairs, 
my  attention  was  caught — &  woman  with  a  strong  Slavic  ac- 

3 


4          FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

cent  was  giving  a  group  of  immigrant  girls  a  lesson  in — not 
English — American. 

"'Ello !"  the  woman  exclaimed,  and  smiling  broadly  she 
extended  her  hand. 

"'Ello !"  each  girl  responded  in  her  turn,  and  she  stolidly 
allowed  her  hand  to  be  pumped  up  and  down  by  the  woman. 

"Sure,"  cried  the  woman,  nodding  her  head  vigorously. 

"Zuer,"  the  girls  repeated,  and  they  also  nodded  vigor- 
ously. 

"No,  no,"  was  emphasized  by  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"Nun,  nun,"  the  girls  grunted,  but  they  shook  their  heads 
so  violently  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  their  under- 
standing. 

"Goo'-by,"  the  teacher  said  at  the  end  of  the  lesson,  as, 
rising,  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Goo'-by?"  the  five  questioned  in  chorus.  Then  they 
struggled  to  their  feet  and  made  an  awkward  attempt  at 
shaking  hands. 

While  the  woman  was  in  the  lavatory,  the  girls,  glancing 
around,  saw  me.  Their  prolonged  stare  was  followed  by 
an  animated  discussion.  What  was  there  about  my  ap- 
pearance to  cause  any  one  to  single  me  out  for  special  com- 
ment? The  quickest  way  to  settle  the  question  seemed  to 
be  to  drag  my  chair  across  the  floor  and  join  the  group. 

"Hello!"  I  greeted  the  five  as  I  planted  my  chair  facing 
them. 

"'Ello!"  was  their  relieved  chorus,  and  cordial  smiles 
flashed  over  the  five  faces  which  an  instant  before  had  re- 
flected surprise  with  a  glint  of  fear. 

"'Merican?"  the  girl  nearest  asked,  and  before  I  could 
reply  the  others  questioned  in  chorus  "'Merican?" 

"Sure,  I'm  an  American,"  I  assured  them,  and  very 
gravely  I  shook,  in  turn,  five  surprisingly  large  hands. 

This  rite  finished,  the  girl  next  me  reached  over  and 
stroked  my  muff.  It  was  so  evident  that  the  others  wished 


FOR  POLLY  PRESTON'S  SAKE  5 

to  do  the  same  thing  that  I  handed  the  muff  over.  It  was 
passed  around  the  circle,  each  girl  stroking  it  and  pressing 
it  for  an  instant  against  her  cheek — a  movement  too  dis- 
tinctly feminine  to  need  explanation.  Once  the  muff  was 
back  in  my  possession  their  interest  shifted  to  my  shoes. 

"Did  they  expect  me  to  pass  my  shoes  around  for  inspec- 
tion?" was  the  query  that  flashed  through  my  mind. 

Fortunately  the  woman  returned  at  that  instant.  She 
explained  that  the  girls  could  not  understand  why  an  Amer- 
ican woman  with  mink  furs  should  wear  such  unfashion- 
able shoes.  The  girls,  all  five  of  them,  understanding  her 
explanation,  stuck  out  their  feet  evidently  sure  of  my  ap- 
proval. They  wore  silk  stockings  with  the  latest  cut  of 
low  shoes — high  French  heels  with  needle-pointed  toes. 
The  woman  informed  me  that  silk  stockings  and  American 
shoes  were  always  the  first  purchase  made  by  an  immigrant 
woman  on  landing  in  this  country. 

My  reason  for  spending  the  first  night  of  my  adventure 
in  the  Grand  Central  was  because  Polly  Preston  would  not 
have  money  enough  to  go  to  a  hotel  and,  being  a  stranger 
in  New  York,  would  know  nothing  of  the  municipal  lodg- 
ing-house for  women.  It  was  far  from  a  disagreeable  ex- 
perience— that  night  in  the  woman's  waiting-room.  In- 
deed, my  attention  was  so  absorbed  by  watching  the  per- 
sons around  me,  that  the  announcement  of  an  early  train 
for  the  West  came  as  a  distinct  surprise.  By  the  clock  it 
was  within  a  few  minutes  of  five — a  new  day  had  come. 

Passing  through  the  great  concourse  of  the  station  I  en- 
tered a  subterranean  passage,  and,  on  again  coming  to  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  found  myself  near  the  corner  of  Fifth 
Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street.  Halting  I  gazed  around 
in  surprise.  A  dream  city  stretched  around  me — the  city 
whose  dimly  realized  beauty  we  all  cherish  in  the  depth  of 
our  soul.  The  wide  avenue,  the  buildings,  every  object  in 
sight,  even  space  itself,  was  done  in  soft,  luminous  grays. 


6          FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

There  was  not  a  sound — no  clang  of  surface-car,  no  honk 
of  automobile,  no  rumble  of  elevated,  no  muffled  growl  of 
subway,  not  even  the  pad  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  velvet 
asphalt.  I  was  alone  in  the  heart  of  a  great  sleeping  city 
— wonderful,  mysterious,  superb  I 

The  realization  of  the  marvellous  beauty  of  the  scene 
was  so  unexpected  and  acute  that  it  hurt.  In  the  pain  there 
was  an  exaltation  that  lifted  me  above  the  problems  of 
every-day  life.  Struggling  to  realize  myself  as  Polly  Pres- 
ton I  called  to  mind  the  lone  five-dollar  bill  in  my  purse. 
Then  I  sternly  reminded  myself  that  my  only  other  worldly 
possession  was  the  scanty  change  of  underwear  folded  about 
my  tooth-brush  and  dressing-comb  in  the  pockets  of  my 
coat.  Contemplation  of  my  poverty  failing  to  lessen  my 
enjoyment  of  my  surroundings,  I  focussed  my  thoughts  on 
my  people — my  sisters  and  my  brothers  and  my  cousins. 
How  they  would  shake  their  heads  could  they  know  of  my 
wandering  around  New  York  at  night  and  alone! 

"Thank  God!"  I  heard  them  exclaim  in  chorus,  "your 
dear  mother  didn't  live  to  see  it." 

Instead  of  being  overwhelmed  by  a  feeling  of  forlorn 
loneliness  I  felt  myself  grin.  Not  even  one  small  pang  for 
setting  at  naught  the  conventions  of  my  class !  A  longing 
to  stop  the  clock  possessed  me,  to  hold  back  dawn,  to  keep 
the  people  asleep,  that  I,  like  a  disembodied  spirit,  might 
wander  over  the  city  and  drink  my  fill  of  its  enchanted  love- 
liness. With  this  wish  filling  my  mind  I  stood  staring  along 
Fifth  Avenue — down  in  the  dusk  toward  Washington  Square, 
up,  up  between  the  tall  buildings  that  seemed  almost  a 
tunnel,  to  the  faint  luminousness  which  I  knew  marked  the 
beginning  of  Central  Park. 

Yet,  excited  as  my  imagination  was,  it  did  not  warn  me 
that  the  adventure  begun  so  carelessly  would  extend  over 
four  years  instead  of  a  few  weeks — and  those  four  years 
the  most  eventful  in  all  history — that  the  war  then  going 


FOR  POLLY  PRESTON'S  SAKE  7 

on  between  a  few  nations  in  Europe  would  convulse  the 
world  and  threaten  the  very  foundations  of  civilization. 
No  premonition  whispered  to  me  of  the  host  of  khaki-clad 
young  men  whose  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  along  the  wide 
avenue  would  be  echoed  in  millions  of  breaking  hearts 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  our  country.  Nor 
of  the  return  march  of  those  same  boys — yet  were  they 
the  same? — in  battle-marred  uniforms  whose  faces,  though 
alight  with  the  joys  of  home-coming  and  the  conscious 
knowledge  that  their  strength  had  put  an  end  to  the  world 
nightmare,  seemed  strangely  old  and  still. 

In  the  soft  gray  dawn  touching  with  silver  the  still-life 
scene  about  me  there  was  no  suggestion  of  Fifth  Avenue 
ablaze  with  silk  flags,  its  asphalt  strewn  with  flowers,  its 
sidewalk  packed  by  millions  of  people  come  to  honor  the 
famous  personages  who  would  pass,  as  in  review,  before  the 
lions  guarding  the  public  library — a  marshal  of  France,  a 
general-in-chief  of  Italy,  a  king  and  his  queen,  and  the  future 
ruler  of  a  great  empire — each  sent  by  a  grateful  country 
as  an  expression  of  gratitude  and  friendship  to  the  people 
of  the  United  States.  And  more  thrilling  perhaps  than 
any  of  these  parades  was  that  at  the  head  of  which  marched 
the  President  of  OUT  country,  followed  by  thousands  of 
women,  soldiers  who  know  neither  nationality  nor  creed, 
and  the  red  cross  whose  banner  symbolizes  universal  mother 
love. 

Then  last  of  all  a  horde  of  Jewish  children  swept  along 
the  historic  thoroughfare  singing  psalms  of  praise,  rejoicing 
over  the  rebirth  of  the  nation  of  their  fathers — Jerusalem, 
wrested  from  Turkish  rule,  had  after  centuries  again  become 
the  capital  of  the  Jewish  race. 

Nor,  standing  there  in  that  mild  November  morning,  did 
I  dream  that  within  sound  of  the  human  voice  almost  under 
the  eaves  of  the  public  library,  as  it  were,  I  would  find  super- 
stition more  rampant  than  among  the  negroes  in  the  Dark 


8          FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Corner  of  my  native  State — a  county  untouched  by  rail- 
roads and  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  turbulent 
rivers,  and  in  which  the  white  children  never  have  more 
than  three  months  public  schooling  during  a  year  and  negro 
children  much  less.  No  guardian  angel  warned  me  of  the 
plague  of  influenza  that,  sweeping  around  the  world,  would 
hover  over  our  great  city,  touching  alike  with  the  finger  of 
death  those  who  dwelt  in  palaces  and  they  who  huddled 
in  tenement  homes.  No  suspicion  of  the  coming  of  nation- 
wide prohibition  was  planted  hi  my  mind,  nor,  more  surpris- 
ing still,  the  knowledge  that  at  our  next  presidential  elec- 
tion men  and  women,  equal  as  citizens,  would  cast  then* 
ballots  standing  side  by  side. 

All  during  those  eventful  four  years  I  remained  in  the 
underbrush — the  world  of  the  unskilled  working  woman 
of  New  York  City.  During  that  time  I  held  twenty-five 
different  positions  in  almost  as  many  different  fields  of  work. 
I  directed  envelopes  for  a  large  mail-order  house,  was  a 
saleswoman  in  one  of  the  most  advertised  of  metropolitan 
department  stores,  addressed  envelopes  for  a  woman's  maga- 
zine, folded  circulars  for  one  of  the  largest  publishing  houses 
hi  the  country,  acted  as  saleswoman  in  the  premium  station 
of  a  large  profit-sharing  business,  packed  cigarettes,  served 
as  waitress  in  one  of  the  more  fashionable  hotels  at  a  popular 
winter  health  resort,  was  a  packer  in  a  cracker  factory,  an 
assistant  to  a  chocolate-dipper  in  a  candy  factory,  head 
chambermaid  in  the  home  of  a  millionaire,  maid  of  all 
work  hi  a  two-servant  family,  helper  in  a  church  home  for 
small  girls,  gentlewoman  maid  of  all  work  in  a  philanthropic 
institution  for  dependent  children,  assistant  in  the  loan  de- 
partment of  a  Wall  Street  banking  institution — one  of  the 
largest  in  the  world — and  a  clerk  of  the  District  Board  for 
the  city  of  New  York.  I  addressed  envelopes  for  the  same 
mail-order  house,  was  paid  canvasser  for  the  Woman  Suf- 
frage Party,  proof-reader  in  that  department  of  the  Inter- 


FOR  POLLY  PRESTON'S  SAKE  9 

national  Y.  M.  C.  A.  known  as  "the  guts"  of  the  organiza- 
tion, inspector  in  a  gas-mask  factory.  I  folded  circulars  hi 
a  large  printing  plant,  stamped  envelopes  for  yet  another 
woman's  magazine,  worked  in  the  Social  Service  Depart- 
ment of  Bellevue  Hospital,  was  a  clerk  in  the  offices  of 
the  American  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals,  a  license  inspector  for  the  same  society,  and  finally 
saleswoman  in  the  Store  Beautiful — perhaps  the  largest 
and  most  beautiful  store  in  the  world. 

Working  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  living  among  my  fel- 
low workers  on  my  wages,  I  became  in  reality  one  of  the 
class  known  as  Labor.  I  shared  its  misery  during  the 
months  preceding  the  entrance  of  our  country  into  the 
World  War — caused  by  the  continued  low  wages  after  the 
enormous  increase  in  price  of  every  necessity  of  life;  and 
I  suffered  along  with  my  fellows  the  nerve-racking  period 
when  our  plea  for  an  increase  of  wage  hung  in  the  balance. 
When  finally  the  general  increase  was  obtained  I,  with  all 
other  inhabitants  of  the  underbrush,  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 
When  the  trend  of  wages  continued  upward — judged  by 
the  reports  in  the  daily  press  by  leaps  and  bounds,  but  by 
us,  who  had  struggled  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  on 
six  or  seven  dollars  a  week,  or  less — the  feeling  of  relief 
deepened. 

With  the  coming  of  national  prohibition  the  atmosphere 
in  the  tenement  districts  of  New  York  became  almost  that 
of  contentment.  Many  women — hundreds  of  them — told 
me: 

"My  children  have  shoes,  now  that  the  saloon  don't  get 
the  first  pull  at  my  husband's  pay  envelope.  It's  grand !" 

But  that  atmosphere  of  near-contentment  did  not  con- 
tinue long  after  the  close  of  the  war.  During  my  last  year  in 
the  underbrush,  the  working  world — including  office-workers 
—had  become  as  one  huge  caldron  simmering,  simmering, 
simmering  with  suspicion,  fear,  and  hate.  One  of  the  chief 


10        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

causes,  in  New  York  City,  at  least,  is  the  housing  condition. 
While  the  homes  of  the  rich  in  the  Golden  Zone  remain  un- 
tenanted  the  year  round,  the  tenements  are  so  enormously 
congested  that  decent  family  life  is  next  to  impossible.  Chil- 
dren and  young  people  are  forced  to  spend  their  leisure 
time  outside  their  homes.  One  result  of  which  is  the  rapid 
increase  in  crime — the  so-called  "crime  wave." 

Because  I  am  convinced  that  these  conditions  in  America 
are  brought  about  chiefly  by  lack  of  understanding,  I  shall 
write  in  the  chapters  that  follow  my  experience  during  my 
four  years  spent  as  a  working  woman  in  New  York  City. 
And  I  shall  earnestly  try  to  show  conditions  as  they  actu- 
ally exist.  The  bits  of  conversations  given  will  be  taken 
directly  from  my  diary,  and  are  as  nearly  verbatim  as  I 
could  write  when  each  incident  was  fresh  in  my  mind. 

How  long  I  stood  at  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Forty-second  Street,  on  that  November  morning,  which 
now  seems  both  so  near  and  so  far  away,  it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  say.  The  spell  that  gripped  me  was  broken  by  a 
sound  like  a  whisper  of  a  roar  that  increased  until,  with  a 
clanking  crash,  an  elevated  train  came  to  a  halt  at  Third 
Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street. 

Turning  down  Fifth  Avenue  I  set  out  in  search  of  Alice 
Tompkins.  Across  Bryant  Park  a  single  lighted  window 
near  the  top  of  a  tall  building  flared  out.  In  the  east  the 
waning  moon  hung  a  silver  crescent  against  the  purple-black 
curtain  of  fathomless  space. 


CHAPTER  II 

MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

A  NOTE  from  Alice  Tompkins  had  been  among  the  batch 
of  mail  handed  me  the  night  before  as  I  left  the  National 
Art  Club.  She  was  in  New  York,  and  particularly  wished 
to  see  me,  as  soon  as  convenient. 

"Had  she  given  up  her  teacher's  position  in  the  school 
for  defective  children?"  I  wondered,  on  my  way  to  look 
her  up.  "And  why  was  she  stopping  in  such  an  out-of- 
the-way  corner  of  the  lower  West  Side?" 

Though  I  loitered  over  the  three  miles  and  more  of  streets 
it  was  not  quite  seven  o'clock  when  I  rang  the  bell  at  the 
home  for  working  girls  which  I  found  at  the  number  given 
hi  Alice's  note.  The  stare  of  indignant  protest  hurled  at 
me  by  the  woman  who  opened  the  door ! 

"No,"  she  snapped,  without  giving  me  tune  to  speak, 
"we  haven't  got  a  vacancy.  Everything's  filled  up."  And 
she  would  have  banged  the  door  shut  had  I  not  put  my  foot 
in  the  opening. 

"I'm  calling  on  a  guest,"  I  hastened  to  say,  and  taking 
out  Alice's  note  I  offered  it  as  proof. 

"Oh!  I  mistook  you  for  one  of  them  laundry-workers," 
she  told  me  apologetically.  "They're  always  ringing  me 
up  this  time  mornings,  though  it  do  seem  like  they'd  a-found 
out  by  now  we  ain't  goin'  to  take  'em  in  however  often  they 
come." 

"Then  you  have  vacancies?"  I  asked  in  surprise  as  she 
led  the  way  to  the  reception-room  of  the  home. 

"Sure!  Plenty  of  them  for  the  kind  of  girls  we  want. 
What  price  was  you  expectin'  to  pay?" 

11 


12        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

She  accepted,  with  a  gracious  smile,  my  promise  to  call 
on  her  in  case  I  decided  to  come  there  to  live.  While  wait- 
ing for  Alice  my  eyes  wandered  speculatively  about  the 
bleak  little  room,  and  I  wondered  how  much  she  was  pay- 
ing. 

"Four  dollars  a  week  for  my  room  and  two  meals  a  day," 
she  told  me,  replying  to  one  of  my  first  questions.  "That 
is  one  reason  I  wrote  instead  of  waiting  to  call  on  you.  I 
thought  you  might  know  of  a  better  place?" 

"You  don't  suppose  you  could  find  a  place  for  less 
money?"  Her  discontent  nettled  me,  for  I  had  more  than 
half  made  up  my  mind  to  come  there  to  live. 

"For  less  money !"  Alice  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It 
means  paying  four  dollars  a  week  for  my  room.  The  meals 
are  simply  uneatable."  Then  she  explained  her  presence  in 
New  York.  Being  disappointed  in  the  teacher's  position 
obtained  immediately  on  leaving  college  she  had  given  it 
up  and  hastened  to  New  York,  confident  that  she  would  be 
able  to  get  just  the  place  she  wished. 

"It's  the  wrong  season.  All  the  agencies  tell  me  they 
haven't  a  thing  in  my  line."  Then  she  added,  with  a  snap 
of  determination  in  both  her  tone  and  manner:  "I'm  not 
going  back  to  Washington  City — having  people  say  that 
I  can't  hold  down  a  job.  I  answered  an  advertisement  in 
Sunday's  paper  and  got  a  place  with  Jones  Brothers  direct- 
ing envelopes  and  folding  circulars." 

My  interest  became  personal.  Polly  Preston  would  be 
able  to  direct  envelopes  and  fold  circulars. 

"What  do  they  pay  you?" 

Alice  shook  her  head. 

"When  the  manager  heard  that  I  had  been  getting 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  he  said  he  was  ashamed  to  tell 
me  what  they  paid.  He  asked  what  was  the  least  I  would 
come  for.  I  don't  see  how  any  one  can  possibly  live  on 
less  than  twelve  dollars  a  week  in  New  York.  Do  you?" 


MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH    13 

"He'll  give  you  more  than  that,"  was  my  confident  as- 
surance. "He  knows  you're  a  college  woman.  He  wouldn't 
think  of  paying  you  less  than  fifteen,  maybe  twenty.  If 
you  will  let  me  pay  for  my  breakfast " 

"Don't  you  do  it,"  Alice  interrupted,  grabbing  me  by 
the  arm.  "The  bread  is  stale  and  cold,  the  butter  is  un- 
eatable, the  coffee  is  not  coffee  at  all,  and  the  milk  is  skimmed 
until  it  is  a  blue-green.  You  won't  be  able  to  eat  a  thing, 
and  they'll  charge  you  thirty  cents  for  it." 

While  thirty  cents  did  not,  at  that  time,  seem  to  me  a 
great  price  to  pay  for  a  breakfast,  stale  bread  and  blue-green 
milk  was  not  tempting.  Though  my  plans  had  never  in- 
cluded a  second  person,  it  now  occurred  to  me  that  if  Alice 
wished  to  join  me  she  might  be  of  real  assistance  as  well 
as  a  pleasant  companion. 

"Wonderful !"  she  exclaimed,  on  hearing  my  explanation. 
"If  we  can  only  stick  it  out  through  the  Christmas  rush 
you'll  get  material  for  no  end  of  stories.  I've  always  wanted 
to  see  just  what  the  Christmas  rush  is  like  in  a  popular  New 
York  store." 

Alice  was  about  twenty-three  and  small.  like  many 
small  women,  she  was  continually  standing  on  her  dignity. 
And  like  many  men  and  more  women,  the  first  of  their 
family  to  attain  a  college  degree,  she  was  perpetually  bring- 
ing the  fact  of  having  that  degree  before  her  associates. 
She  was  the  best  example  I  have  ever  seen  of  beauty  with- 
out symmetry.  Her  dark  hair  was  stringy,  her  face  was 
long,  her  upper  lip  short,  showing  a  glint  of  teeth,  her  brows 
were  straight  and  dark,  her  lashes  short  and  dark,  her  nose 
long  and  her  dark  complexion  blotchy.  She  had  but  one 
really  fine  feature — eyes,  blue-gray  in  color  and  eloquently 
expressive.  Because  of  her  eyes  she  must  always  be  a  notice- 
ably attractive  woman. 

On  leaving  her  I  walked  across  town  to  the  Central 
Branch  of  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.,  and  after  getting  a  satisfying 


14        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

breakfast  for  fifteen  cents  I  asked  the  price  of  rooms.  The 
cheapest  rate  was  sixty-five  cents  the  night  with  two  in  a 
room.  Clutching  my  pocketbook  I  hurried  out — the  pur- 
chasing power  of  five  dollars  might  not  be  so  great  as  it 
had  appeared. 

A  subway  train  set  me  down  at  the  entrance  of  a  large 
department  store  whose  advertisement  for  salesladies  in 
that  morning's  paper  had  attracted  my  attention.  The 
advertisement  read  " experience  unnecessary"  and  I  knew 
the  head  of  the  firm  to  be  one  of  the  most  widely  known 
philanthropists  in  the  country. 

In  the  employment  department  of  this  great  store  I 
stared  at  the  voluminous  application-blank  given  me  to 
fill  out.  My  age,  color,  nationality,  my  mother's  maiden 
name,  my  father's  profession.  Were  my  parents  living  or 
dead.  My  own  personal  history  for  the  past  ten  years. 
The  names  and  addresses  of  two  property-owners  who 
would  vouch  for  me. 

"Ah!"  I  congratulated  myself,  on  reading  this  last  item. 
"The  superintendent  has  his  eye  on  you  for  a  good  posi- 
tion at  a  fat  salary." 

On  returning  the  paper  with  all  the  questions  truthfully 
answered  the  girl  at  the  window  informed  me  that  they 
would  drop  me  a  card  in  a  day  or  so  telling  me  when  to 
come  to  work.  A  glow  of  satisfied  pride  swept  over  me. 
Who  said  an  unskilled  woman  had  a  hard  time  earning  an 
honest  living  in  New  York  ?  Alice  hadn't  found  it  difficult 
to  get  a  job  at  a  living  wage.  I  was  sure  of  one.  However, 
no  use  loafing. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  I  applied  at  a  mail-order 
house  advertising  for  addressers. 

"Any  experience?"  was  the  only  question,  asked  by  the 
kindly  little  manager. 

Who  has  not  addressed  envelopes?  It  proved  to  be 
piece-work  in  a  well-lighted,  comfortably  heated  loft.  At 
five  o'clock  that  afternoon  I  had  finished  one  thousand 


MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH     15 

envelopes  and  thereby  earned  one  dollar  and  a  quarter — it 
being  three-line  work.  On  leaving  the  building  the  problem 
of  where  to  spend  the  night  faced  me.  A  thought  of  the 
municipal  lodging-house  for  women  again  occurred  to  me, 
but  recalling  that  I  was  a  working  woman,  not  an  investi- 
gator, and  as  Polly  Preston  would  know  nothing  about 
such  a  place,  I  pushed  the  suggestion  aside.  Returning 
to  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.,  I  meekly  asked  for  a  bed  in  a  sixty-five- 
cent  room. 

My  roommate  was  an  oldish  young  lady  who  confided 
to  me  that  she  had  come  from  a  small  town  in  the  Middle 
West  to  take  a  position  with  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Com- 
pany. She  had  no  acquaintance  with  the  manager  or 
any  member  of  the  company.  Indeed  I  could  not  learn 
that  she  had  an  acquaintance  in  New  York  City.  Her 
confidence  was  nothing  short  of  sublime.  While  she  might 
not  get  a  leading  role,  never  having  studied  abroad,  she 
assured  me  that  she  had  a  hunch  that  she  would  get  an 
important  part — far  above  the  chorus. 

All  the  evening  and  far  into  the  night,  when  she  was 
not  singing  the  latest  ragtime  she  was  crowing  like  a  hen. 
She  called  it  exercising  her  upper  register.  Having  spent 
one  year  as  a  student  in  a  conservatory  of  music  I  knew 
from  experience  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  let  her  find 
out  conditions  for  herself. 

The  following  day  by  writing  steadily  from  eight  to  six 
I  managed  to  address  fifteen  hundred  envelopes.  The 
companionship  of  the  six  women  who  shared  the  long 
table  with  me  was  diverting.  Before  the  day  was  half 
gone  each  of  the  five  had  confided  to  all  within  reach  of 
her  voice  her  personal  history  and  reason  for  working. 
During  the  lunch-hour  the  sixth  woman  continued  to  write, 
nibbling  from  time  to  time  at  an  apple  and  what  appeared 
to  be  a  slice  of  dry  bread.  Finally  she  inquired  if  I  were 
married. 

"You're  lucky,"   she  congratulated  me.    "If  I  could 


16        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

make  sure  my  four  children  would  be  took  care  of  I'd  put 
myself  to  sleep  and  never  wake  up." 

"How  about  your  husband?"  was  my  horrified  rejoinder. 

"He's  gone,"  she  replied  with  a  quavering  little  chuckle. 
"When  our  fifth  baby  came  he  left."  After  a  pause  she 
added:  "Maybe  he  wouldn't  have  gone  if  he'd  a-knowd  it 
was  goin'  to  die  so  soon."  Another  pause.  Then  wist- 
fully: "Maybe  he  would — never  no  countin'  on  a  man." 

The  next  day  at  eleven  the  little  manager  informed  us 
that  having  finished  all  the  envelopes  he  would  have  no 
further  need  of  our  services  until  time  to  send  out  their 
spring  catalogues.  Having  received  a  post-card  from  the 
department  store  telling  me  to  report  ready  for  work  at 
eight-thirty  the  following  Monday  morning,  this  abrupt 
ending  of  my  first  job  caused  me  no  regret. 

Deciding  to  devote  the  afternoon  to  looking  for  rooms, 
I  hurried  back  to  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  and  approached  the  wo- 
man in  charge  of  the  Rooming  Bureau.  When  she  learned 
that  my  limit  was  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  week  she  shook 
her  head.  She  had  not  had  a  room  as  low  as  that  in  at 
least  two  years.  So  late  in  the  season  and  two  rooms  on 
the  same  floor?  Impossible!  When  I  reminded  her  of 
newspapers  and  magazine  articles  advising  working  women 
on  the  economic  division  of  their  wages  her  face  crinkled 
into  a  smile. 

"Those  people  find  out  the  wage  of  the  average  working 
girl — some  don't  even  take  that  trouble — then  they  sit 
at  their  desks  and  divide  it  up  for  her.  Sometimes  they 
make  real  touching  stories.  I've  often  wondered  how  much 
they  are  paid."  She  looked  me  over.  "Perhaps  you  can 
tell  me?  You  are  a  writer." 

The  attack  was  so  unexpected  that  I  actually  stuttered. 
When  I  asked  why  she  had  made  such  a  guess  she  replied 
indifferently: 

"Only  a  professional  social  investigator  or  a  writer  could 


MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH    17 

be  so  ignorant  and  at  the  same  time  so  cock-sure.  You  are 
not  a  social  investigator.  At  least  I  never  saw  one  whose 
shoes  were  so  clean  this  late  in  the  week." 

On  my  making  a  full  confession  her  interest  was  aroused. 
When  she  was  convinced  that  Alice  and  I  purposed  to  live 
on  our  earnings  she  turned  her  catalogue  of  rooms  over  to 
me.  Selecting  twenty  of  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  the 
most  desirable  addresses  I  set  out. 

It  was  after  three  o'clock  when  the  door  at  the  last  ad- 
dress on  my  list  closed  behind  me.  The  cheapest  room  I 
had  seen  was  three  dollars  and  a  half  a  week.  Its  only 
window  opened  on  a  shaft  and  there  was  no  heat  of  any 
sort.  In  an  effort  to  bolster  up  my  flagging  spirits  I  be- 
came defiantly  independent. 

Why  confine  myself  to  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  list?  I  had 
passed  a  number  of  attractive-looking  houses  with  the  sign 
"furnished  rooms"  out.  Why  not  investigate  them? 
Alice  and  I  were  both  old  enough,  had  sufficient  experience 
and  judgment,  to  see  if  anything  was  amiss. 

Just  off  one  of  the  most  beautiful  squares  in  New  York 
I  came  upon  an  unusually  attractive-looking  house  with 
a  furnished-room  sign  out.  Even  the  sign  itself  was  neater 
and  more  cheerful-appearing  than  any  that  had  previously 
attracted  my  attention.  The  door  was  opened  by  the  land- 
lady. It  was  a  charming  room — on  the  second  floor  with 
a  huge  bay  window — that  overlooked  a  well-kept  back 
yard.  The  bathroom  was  on  the  same  floor,  and  in  a  little 
private  hall  just  outside  the  door  of  the  room  there  was  a 
gas-stove  with  two  burners. 

On  learning  that  the  rent  was  three  dollars  the  week, 
including  gas  for  cooking,  I  opened  my  pocketbook  to  pay 
a  week  advance. 

"Emily." 

Quickly  turning  toward  the  door  from  which  direction 
the  call  appeared  to  come,  I  as  quickly  remembered  that 


18        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

my  mother  had  been  in  her  grave  more  than  fourteen  years. 
Without  thought,  moved  entirely  by  instinct,  I  slipped 
by  the  woman  and  out  of  the  room.  Halting  on  the  stairs 
between  her  and  the  door  I  explained  that  it  seemed  to  me 
wiser  to  consult  Alice  before  definitely  deciding. 

Out  on  the  streets  my  cheeks  tingled  with  shame.  Was 
I  a  fool  or  a  coward  or  both?  There  had  been  nothing 
suspicious  about  the  woman  and  certainly  her  house  was 
more  attractive  than  any  on  the  Y.  W.  list.  Out  there  in 
the  sunlight  it  seemed  the  height  of  absurdity  to  imagine 
that  my  mother  had  spoken  to  me.  Deciding  to  telephone 
Alice  and  ask  her  to  meet  me  at  the  house  on  her  way  from 
work  I  turned  toward  Third  Avenue  to  look  for  the  nearest 
drug-store. 

Discovering  that  I  was  almost  under  the  eaves  of  a  home 
for  deaconesses,  it  occurred  to  me  that  they  might  have  a 
list  of  decent  rooming-houses  in  that  neighborhood.  At 
any  rate,  I  reasoned,  they  would  certainly  be  in  a  position 
to  reassure  me  about  the  house  I  had  just  left. 

While  the  little  deaconess  who  opened  the  door  was  going 
over  her  list  of  rooms  looking  for  a  vacancy,  I  mentioned 
having  called  at  a  house  on  that  block,  giving  the  number. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  mustn't  think 
of  going  there.  That  house  has  been  raided  by  the  police 
three  tunes  within  the  past  month." 

When  at  last  she  found  a  rooming-house  on  her  list  not 
marked  "filled"  she  gave  me  the  address.  Within  half 
an  hour  I  had  taken  and  paid  for  exactly  what  Alice  and 
I  had  set  our  hearts  on — two  small  clean  rooms  on  the  top 
floor  in  the  back  of  an  old-fashioned  house  in  a  convenient 
and  decent  neighborhood. 

"Of  course  we  shall  have  to  keep  our  living  expenses 
within  what  you  are  now  paying,"  I  told  Alice  that  evening, 
when  she  stopped  in  on  her  way  from  work.  "Two  dol- 
lars and  a  half  each  a  week  for  rent  and  one  dollar  and  a 


MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH    19 

half  each  for  our  household  budget.  It  would  have  been 
nicer  if  you  could  have  moved  to-night." 

"I'd  have  come  quick  enough,"  Alice  retorted.  "You 
told  me  not  to  dare  to  come  before  Tuesday." 

"Certainly.  You  have  paid  until  Tuesday  noon.  You 
cannot  afford  to  give  that  home  the  price  of  five  meals 
and  three  nights'  room-rent.  We  are  out  to  learn  the  value 
of  money,  not  how  to  spend  it." 

"I  don't  believe  we'll  get  very  much  to  spend,"  Alice 
replied  despondently.  "Everything  in  New  York  seems 
very  expensive.  Maybe  the  food  they  give  us  at  the 
Home  is  as  good  as " 

"Stop  it!  If  you  knew  the  price  of  foodstuffs  in  the 
push-cart  markets  you'd  know  that  three  dollars  a  week 
will  give  two  women  all  they  can  eat — provided  they  do 
their  own  cooking  and  use  common  sense  in  buying." 

"Will  you  do  the  buying  for  the  first  week?"  Alice 
demanded. 

"No  indeed.  No  weekly  shifts  for  me — either  as  a  buyer 
or  as  a  cook.  A  month  is  the  shortest  period  one  should 
attempt  when  economy  is  to  be  considered.  I  have  thought 
it  all  out.  The  one  who  does  the  buying  cooks  dinner  and 
washes  up  the  breakfast  dishes.  The  other  washes  the 
dinner  dishes  and  cooks  breakfast.  How  does  that  suit 
you?" 

"I'm  willing  to  do  the  work,"  Alice  assured  me.  "But 
I  believe  we'll  starve  to  death  if  we  don't  put  in  more  than 
a  dollar  and  a  half  a  week  for  food." 

"I  was  forgetting  to  tell  you  about  my  adventure,''  I 
said,  hoping  to  give  her  a  change  of  thought  and  thereby 
stop  her  croaking.  "It  was  really  exciting."  I  then  de- 
scribed my  experience  at  the  unlisted  rooming-house  and 
the  deaconess  home. 

"How  comforting  it  is  to  know  that  the  spirits  of  our 
loved  ones  are  always  hovering  around  us,  guarding  us  from 


20        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

harm!"  she  commented  solemnly.  " After  such  a  direct 
manifestation —  What!"  she  cried,  interrupting  herself  as 
she  realized  the  significance  of  my  smile.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  you  don't  believe  your  mother  could  come  to  warn 
you?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  would  or  could,  but  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  did.  What  you  call  a  direct  manifestation  seems 
to  me  merely  a  vestigial  faculty  inherited  from  our  remote 
ancestors — who,  not  yet  having  developed  the  orderly, 
conscious  mind,  existed  by  means  of  powers  akin  to  instinct 
of  animals.  It  may  not  be  very  flattering  to  think  of  one's 
ancestors  as  the  missing  link,  but  I  prefer  it  to  the  suspi- 
cion that  the  spirit  of  my  mother  has  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  chase  around  after  me." 

For  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  profound  silence.  Then 
Alice  began  to  snap  and  unsnap  the  fastening  of  her  glove 
while  I  continued  to  polish  my  shoes. 

"Well,"  my  friend  began  with  a  sigh,  "of  course  every 
one  has  a  right  to  their  own  opinion.  I  don't  believe  in 
the  missing-link  theory.  What's  more,  I  do  believe  in  a 
hereafter  and  that  I  shall  be  able  to  come  back  and  help 
the  people  I  love." 

"Don't  forget  the  parable  of  Lazarus  and  Dives,"  I 
cautioned  her,  as  I  stored  the  bottle  of  shoe-polish  on  the 
shelf  of  my  tiny  wardrobe.  "In  that  parable  it  is  made 
very  plain  that  as  the  brothers  of  Dives  had  not  heeded  the 
teachings  of  Moses  and  the  prophets  they  would  pay  no 
attention  to  Lazarus  risen  from  the  dead.  My  plans  for 
the  next  world  do  not  include  any  time  or  thought  devoted 
to  the  interest  of  my  friends." 

Alice  dragged  her  chair  nearer  to  mine  and  looked  eagerly 
into  my  face. 

"Tell  me,"  she  asked  breathlessly.  "What  do  you  plan 
to  do?  What  is  the  very  first  thing  you  plan  to  do  when 
you  step  behind  the  curtain  of  now?" 


MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH    21 

"Get  Mr.  Shakespeare  and  Lord  Bacon  in  a  corner  and 
make  the  old  codgers  tell  me  who  really  did  write  the  plays." 

Unable  to  keep  my  face  straight  a  moment  longer  I 
hurried  across  the  hall  and  turned  on  the  water  in  the  bath- 
tub. Returning  to  the  room  a  few  minutes  later  it  was 
evident  from  the  prim  set  of  Alice's  lips  that  she  had  de- 
cided to  overlook  my  levity.  What  had  come  over  the 
girl? — I  wondered.  Why  had  she  suddenly  become  such  a 
killjoy? 

"You  haven't  asked  me  about  my  salary,"  she  said,  al- 
most as  though  in  reply  to  my  questions.  "This  was  pay- 
day." 

"How  much  did  you  get?"  My  eagerness  was  not  as- 
sumed. "You  will  remember  my  telling  you  that  you'd 
get  a  good  salary.  How  much?" 

"Eight  dollars." 

"What?"  The  next  instant  it  dawned  on  me  that  she 
was  jesting.  "  Oh,  I  see !  Eight  dollars  a  day.  Do  they 
pay  you  forty-eight  or  fifty-six  a  week?" 

There  was  a  pause,  then  she  glanced  up  at  me  with  a 
little  twisted  smile. 

"Eight  dollars  a  week."  Answering  my  continued 
speechless  stare  she  added:  "All  the  other  girls  got  seven — 
I  saw  their  envelopes.  Some  of  them  have  been  working 
there  more  than  a  year.  Evidently,"  she  said  bitterly, 
"that  one  dollar  is  a  concession  to  my  college  degree." 

Taking  my  seat  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  I  stared  through 
the  window  at  the  torch  flaming  on  the  top  of  the  Metro- 
politan tower.  Eight  hours  a  day,  six  days  a  week — they 
did  not  even  give  Saturday  afternoon.  Eight  dollars  a 
week  minus  sixty  cents  car-fare — twelve  cents  the  hour. 
And  in  a  publishing  house  of  international  reputation ! 

At  this  thought  I  burst  out  laughing.     Alice  stared. 

"Those  are  the  kind  of  publishers  dear  kind  Mr.  Heze- 
kiah  Butterworth  used  to  caution  me  against,"  I  explained. 


22        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"It  was  just  after  the  publication  of  my  first  novel — a 
'best  seller/  as  you  may  recall.  When  I  used  to  grow  en- 
thusiastic about  my  publishers,  Mr.  Butterworth  would 
remind  me:  'Don't  forget,  my  dear,  Judas  Iscariot  was  a 
publisher/  " 

But  even  the  silliness  of  this  hoary  joke  did  not  make 
Alice  forget  her  disappointment.  Watching  her  as  she  sat 
silent  and  woebegone  hi  the  meagre  light  of  the  bare  little 
room  I  congratulated  myself  on  having  induced  her  to  join 
me.  What  a  mine  of  material  she  would  furnish  me! 
Polly  Preston  working  in  New  York  at  twelve  cents  an  hour, 
half-fed,  going  without  clothes,  perhaps  walking  ten  miles 
a  day  to  save  car-fare.  With  such  a  background  there  could 
be  no  doubt  about  my  making  an  intensely  emotional  story. 
Of  course,  I  reasoned  to  myself,  out  of  the  abundance  of 
my  salary  I  would  see  to  it  that  Alice  did  not  actually  suffer. 

"What  do  you  advise  me  to  do?"  Alice  finally  asked, 
interrupting  me  in  the  midst  of  my  ghoulish  air-castle  archi- 
tecture. "Do  you  think  I  had  better  go  back  to  work  on 
Monday  or — or  go  home?" 

How  I  wished  she  had  not  asked  me  that  question !  It 
is  not  easy  to  act  the  ghoul  when  the  person  you  plan  to 
plunder  sits  up  and  holds  out  her  hands  to  you.  In  that 
instant  I  saw  all  the  material — the  very  best  material- 
needed  to  build  my  History  of  Polly  Preston  go  up,  as  it 
were,  in  thin  smoke.  With  a  sigh  of  genuine  regret  I  said: 

"Go  back  to  work,"  and  my  voice  was  emphatic.  "You 
don't  want  to  throw  up  the  sponge  and  go  back  home  your 
first  year  out  of  college.  Eight  dollars  a  week  will  pay 
your  actual  living  expenses.  You  needn't  run  behind. 
Besides,"  I  added  as  a  morsel  of  consolation,  and  with  an 
unholy  sigh,  "it  won't  be  for  long.  As  soon  as  I  get  settled 
in  the  department  store  I'll  look  around  and  get  you  a  good 
opening." 

"But  you  don't  know  that  you  are  going  to  get  a  decent 


MY  FIRST  STEPS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH    23 

wage!"    Alice  wailed.     "You  may  not  get  much  more 
than  they  pay  me." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  I  reproved,  suppressing  the  irritation 
caused  by  being  forced,  as  I  considered  it,  to  fill  up  with  my 
own  hands  such  a  rich  mine  of  literary  material.  "If  you 
had  seen  that  application-blank  you'd  know  that  I  am  to 
get  a  good — not  wage — but  a  good  salary,  a  good  fat  sal- 
ary." 


CHAPTER  III 

SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS 

MONDAY  morning  I  jammed  myself  into  a  subway  train 
bound  for  the  responsible,  high-salaried  position  which  my 
vanity  assured  me  waited  for  me  in  the  department  store. 
Arriving  a  few  minutes  after  eight  I  found  at  least  fifty 
women  and  girls  already  waiting  and  fully  as  many  more 
came  later.  On  the  opening  of  the  employees'  entrance 
we  were  directed  to  one  corner  of  the  damp,  unheated 
basement  and  there  kept  standing  for  nearly  two  hours. 
Finally  a  man  and  a  woman  made  their  appearance  and 
divided  us  into  squads  of  five  or  six. 

The  squad  to  which  I  was  assigned  was  told  to  follow  a 
little  girl  with  a  pale  face  and  very  bowed  legs.  After 
about  a  half-hour  spent  in  climbing  up  and  down  stairs 
and  waiting  outside  closed  doors  we  at  last  came  to  a  halt 
in  the  loft  in  which  we  had  left  our  hats  and  coats.  Here, 
after  a  wait  of  another  half-hour,  a  youngish  man  took 
charge  of  us  and  conducting  us  to  one  corner  of  a  large 
lunch-room  informed  us  that  he  would  teach  us  the  cardinal 
principles  of  salesmanship.  This,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to 
understand,  comprised  making  out  sale-slips  and  wearing 
a  perpetual  smile  and  a  black  shirtwaist. 

"The  company  won't  stand  for  a  grouchy  saleslady. 
I'm  tellin'  you,"  this  teacher  warned  us  at  the  end  of  the 
lesson.  "And  if  you  don't  want  to  get  fired  you'll  come 
to-morrow  hi  a  black  shirtwaist.  Skirts  don't  matter  so 
much,  but  you  must  wear  a  black  waist.  You  can  get 
'em  at  the  regular  counter — dollar  and  a  quarter,  all  sizes." 

24 


SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS      25 

Being  paired  with  a  woman  whose  name,  she  confided 
to  me,  was  Mrs.  McDavit,  I  was  ordered  to  follow  yet 
another  little  girl  with  a  pale  face  and  very  bowed  legs. 
Coming  to  a  halt  in  the  underwear  department,  the  little 
girl  turned  us  over  to  the  aisle  manager.  He  stationed  us 
at  a  long  aisle-counter  piled  with  garments  ranging  in  price 
from  nineteen  to  ninety-seven  cents.  A  Mrs.  Johnson, 
who  was  in  charge  of  an  adjoining  counter,  was  to  see  to 
it  that  we  made  no  mistakes. 

When  ordered,  by  the  assistant  aisle  manager,  to  go  with 
Mrs.  Johnson  to  lunch,  my  salesbook  showed  that  I  had 
sold  three  times  as  much  as  Mrs.  McDavit  and  considerably 
more  than  Mrs.  Johnson. 

"You'll  make  a  good  saleslady,"  Mrs.  Johnson  encour- 
aged. "  Maybe  they'll  make  a  permanent  of  you." 

"What  am  I  now?" 

"You're  an  extra.    You'll  get  paid  every  night." 

"How  much?"  I  asked. 

"Dollar  a  day." 

Stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  I  stared  at  the  two 
women.  "A  dollar  a  day !  Did  you  know  you  were  to 
be  paid  only  a  dollar  a  day?"  I  demanded  of  Mrs.  Mc- 
Davit. 

"  'Tain't  much,"  she  apologized,  "but  my  daughter 
thinks  it  better  than  takin'  in  wash." 

"My  son  has  charge  of  a  stationary  engine  and  Mondays 
and  Saturdays  are  his  long  shifts,"  Mrs.  Johnson  explained. 
"I  can  work  without  his  knowing  it.  He's  studying  for 
the  ministry  and  me  earning  two  dollars  a  week  makes  it 
easier  for  him." 

In  the  lunch-room  maintained  by  the  firm  for  its  employ- 
ees, from  a  long  list  of  what  appeared  to  be  low-priced 
dishes  I  ordered  vegetable  soup,  a  baked  apple,  and  bread 
and  butter.  The  enticingly  misnamed  soup  proved  to 
be  hot  water  thickened  with  flour  and  colored  with  tomato 


26        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

catsup.  After  investigating  the  lumps  of  uncooked  flour 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl  I  put  it  aside  and  devoted  myself 
to  the  lumpy  little  apple  and  the  bread  and  butter.  This 
last  consisted  of  two  thin  slices  of  white  bread  between 
which  was  the  thinnest  coating  of  butter  I  had,  at  that 
time,  ever  seen.  Later  I  learned  that  it  was  put  on  with  a 
brush  dipped  in  melted  margarine. 

Shortly  after  three  o'clock  the  aisle  manager  ordered  me 
to  report  to  the  superintendent.  That  dignitary  pom- 
pously ordered  me  to  report  the  following  morning  and 
take  charge  of  the  counter  at  which  Mrs.  McDavit  and  I 
were  stationed. 

"We've  decided  to  keep  you  on  regular,"  he  informed  me. 

"How  much  am  I  to  be  paid?"  I  asked. 

"Six  a  week,"  was  his  complacent  reply. 

"No  wonder  your  advertisement  is  always  in  the  papers." 

He  came  down  in  his  chair  with  a  bang. 

"We  have  girls  who  have  worked  here  months,  years," 
he  retorted  angrily.  "They  are  content  on  six  dollars  a 
week,  glad  to  get  it.  You  are  only  a  greenhorn." 

"But  not  green  enough  to  work  for  six  dollars  a  week," 
and  turning  I  left  his  office. 

So  ended  my  dream  of  a  highly  paid  responsible  posi- 
tion. 

Employees  not  being  allowed  to  use  the  elevator  during 
busy  hours,  I  was  forced  to  tramp  up  three  flights  of  stairs. 
On  reaching  the  counter  I  swung  out  the  silly  little  seat 
attached  to  one  of  the  table-legs  and  sat  down. 

"Get  up.  Get  up,"  Mrs.  Johnson  urged  in  a  whisper  as 
she  hurried  toward  me. 

"Won't  they  even  let  you  sit  down?"  I  demanded, 
struggling  to  my  aching  feet. 

"They  won't  say  nothing  to  you  but  if  the  aisle  manager 
sees  you  he'll  put  you  on  their  black  list." 

I  looked  the  two  women  over.     Mrs.  Johnson's  white 


SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS      27 

face  was  haggard  until  it  looked  pinched.  Mrs.  McDavit 
had  lost  much  of  her  ruddy  color  and  dark  circles  had 
formed  under  her  eyes. 

"You  are  both  dead  tired.  Both  ready  to  drop,"  I 
told  them.  "Your  feet  ache  so  badly  that  you  feel  like 
cutting  them  off." 

"If  my  back  didn't  ache  I  don't  believe  I'd  mind  my  feet 
so  much,"  Mrs.  Johnson  admitted.  "When  I  was  young 
girls  didn't  go  to  business  as  they  do  now,  so  I  didn't  get 
no  training.  Maybe  if  I  had  it  wouldn't  come  so  hard  to 
me  now." 

"It's  harder  than  washin'.  I've  found  that  out,"  Mrs. 
McDavit  said.  After  a  moment  she  added  diffidently: 
"If  you  was  a  married  woman  you'd  know  how  hard  it  is 
to  work  at  a  thing  that  made  your  children  ashamed  of 
you." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  little  exchange  of  confidences 
that  an  elderly  man,  whom  I  had  noticed  earlier  in  the 
afternoon  loitering  near  our  counter,  approached  and  spoke 
to  me. 

"These  are  not  of  very  good  quality?"  he  questioned, 
fingering  the  underwear. 

"They  are  unusually  good  value,"  I  truthfully  replied. 
"Good  for  the  price." 

"Not  such  as  a  lady  like  yourself  would  prefer?" 

"We  cannot  always  choose,"  I  answered,  recalling  my 
one  change  of  undergarments. 

"You  would  like  those  better,"  he  said,  indicating  the 
display  of  silk  underwear  at  the  regular  counter. 

"Any  woman  would,"  I  admitted  indifferently,  as  I 
turned  to  wait  on  a  customer. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Johnson  asked  my  bust  mea- 
sure. She  explained  that  a  customer  at  the  regular  counter 
was  buying  silk  underwear  for  a  lady  about  my  size.  Glanc- 
ing across  I  saw  the  elderly  man  talking  with  the  regular 


28        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

saleswoman.  He  looked  to  be  a  man  of  refinement  with 
ample  means. 

The  next  time  my  end  of  the  counter  was  free  of  cus- 
tomers he  approached  me  and  thrust  a  parcel  into  my 
hands. 

"What  is  this  for?"  I  asked,  recognizing  that  it  was  the 
parcel  he  had  received  at  the  regular  underwear  counter. 

"For  you,"  he  leered.  Then  before  I  could  so  much  as 
wink  my  staring  eyes  he  whispered:  "I  want  you  to 
meet  me  to-night — hi  Tunes  Square  drug-store  at  eight — 
sharp." 

Every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  seemed  to  rush  to  my 
head.  In  that  instant  I  realized  the  significance  of  the 
expression  "seeing  red."  I  was  all  but  blind  and  choking 
with  rage.  Another  instant  and  I  would  have  done  my 
best  to  wring  his  flabby  neck. 

A  woman  at  my  elbow  asked  the  price  of  a  corset-cover. 
At  the  elevator  the  old  reprobate  turned  and  blew  me  a 
kiss  from  his  gloved  fingers. 

Mrs.  Johnson  and  Mrs.  McDavit  received  my  indignant 
explanation  more  calmly  than  I  had  expected. 

"They  usually  come  round  this  tune,"  Mrs.  Johnson 
stated.  "They  wait  until  a  girl  is  all  tired  out,  willing  for 
'most  anything.  Then  they  flash  their  money  before  her 
eyes.  It's  a  cruel  shame." 

"I'm  going  to  tell  the  aisle  manager!"  I  declared,  dis- 
gusted by  what  appeared  to  me  the  callous  acceptance  by 
the  two  women  of  a  heinous  condition. 

Mrs.  McDavit  grabbed  me  by  the  arm. 

"Hush,"  she  told  me.  "Hush!  Don't  talk  so  loud.  My 
daughter  had  a  friend  who  was  fired  for  doing  that.  They 
wouldn't  give  her  a  reference — she'd  worked  for  'em  more'n 
two  years." 

Mrs.  Johnson  took  the  parcel  of  silk  underwear  and 
slipped  it  under  the  garments  on  our  table.  Later,  when 


SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS      29 

it  was  uncovered  by  a  customer,  Mrs.  McDavit  handed  it 
to  the  aisle  manager,  who  in  turn  sent  it  to  the  lost  and 
found  desk. 

At  six  o'clock  the  extra  saleswomen  were  called  on  to  sign 
for  and  receive  their  pay  for  that  day.  Opening  my  envelope 
I  stared  at  its  contents.  I  had  risen  before  six,  dressed 
without  time  for  a  proper  bath,  cooked  my  breakfast,  stood 
packed  like  a  sardine  in  a  subway  train  for  more  than  ten 
miles,  worked  standing  on  my  feet  all  day,  been  forced  to 
accept  the  vile  allurements  of  an  old  reprobate  all  for — one 
dollar.  Surely  no  ruby,  no  pearl,  ever  cost  more!  A  bit 
of  green  paper ! 

It  was  nearly  half  past  six  when  the  closing-bell  rang — 
the  store  having  first  to  be  cleared  of  inconsiderate  cus- 
tomers. Another  ten  minutes  was  consumed  hi  tidying  up 
the  counters  and  drawing  on  their  covers.  And  yet  an- 
other ten  minutes  was  required  to  cross  to  the  loft  build- 
ing and  get  OUT  hats  and  coats. 

As  we  poured  out  the  wide  door  a  steady  stream  of 
women  and  girls,  by  the  hundreds,  it  gave  me  a  thrill  of 
pleased  surprise  to  realize  that  we  were  not  unexpected. 
It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  the  fathers,  brothers,  and 
sweethearts  of  my  fellow  workers  would  be  on  hand  to  es- 
cort them  home.  Yet  there  they  were,  a  double  line  of 
them  stretching  along  both  sides  of  the  street  for  more  than 
one  long  block. 

As  we  passed  between  this  double  line  the  men,  one  by 
one,  would  step  out  and  take  the  arm  of  the  girl  or  woman 
for  whom  he  waited.  Turning  to  cross  the  street  I  noted 
unheedingly  that  a  man  detached  himself  from  the  outer 
line  and  was  coming  in  the  same  direction. 

"Wait  there,  Maisie,"  he  called.  He  was  so  near  me 
that,  fancying  he  had  made  a  mistake,  I  glanced  back  to  see 
if  he  really  was  calling  me.  "Wanter  make  five  dollars 
easy  money?"  he  asked,  grinning  in  my  face. 


30        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

I  stepped  up  on  the  sidewalk  and  faced  him.  It  was  on 
a  corner  and  under  the  full  glare  of  an  electric  light. 

"You  go  to  hell,"  I  told  him. 

Had  he  come  one  step  nearer  I  would  have  done  my  best 
to  have  sent  him  to  hell.  The  ferule  of  a  steel-framed  um- 
brella is  a  dangerous  weapon  in  the  hands  of  an  infuriated 
woman. 

The  next  morning  on  being  awakened  by  the  alarm-clock 
I  bounded  out  of  bed  only  to  sink  back  with  a  half-smoth- 
ered wail  of  pain.  The  muscles  of  my  feet,  my  ankles, 
and  my  legs  up  to  the  small  of  my  back  felt  like  red-hot 
cords  suddenly  drawn  taut  through  my  raw  flesh.  Every 
inch  of  me  below  my  waist  ached  horribly.  Involuntary 
tears  sprang  to  my  eyes.  It  took  more  than  ten  minutes 
for  me  to  get  a  grip  on  myself.  Then  carefully  and  pain- 
fully I  raised  myself  to  a  sitting  position  and  finally  stood 
on  my  aching  feet. 

The  Metropolitan  clock  chimed  for  the  first  time  that 
day  as  I  halted  at  a  subway  entrance  and  bought  a  news- 
paper. Having  determined  to  get  work  that  would  enable 
me  to  sit  down  until  my  feet  and  limbs  stopped  aching,  my 
heart  throbbed  with  pleasure  on  finding  an  advertisement 
for  addressers.  Knowing  the  importance  of  being  among 
the  early  arrivals,  I  hurried  to  the  place  indicated. 

"We  pay  one  dollar  a  thousand,"  the  assistant  manager, 
a  young  girl,  informed  me.  "And  please  be  careful  with 
the  file." 

It  needed  only  a  glance  at  the  return  address  on  the  en- 
velopes to  assure  me  that  we  were  working  for  one  of  the 
most  widely  known  woman's  magazines  in  the  world.  Sure 
of  having  found  a  good  job  even  at  one  dollar  a  thousand  I 
glanced  around  me.  The  loft  was  in  a  large  corner  build- 
ing and  might  have  been  well  lighted  as  well  as  comfortably 
heated  had  the  windows  been  washed.  At  first  I  mistook 
them  for  ground  glass. 


SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS      31 

There  were  only  fourteen  women  besides  myself,  though 
judging  by  the  chairs  and  tables  accommodations  had  been 
provided  for  fully  two  hundred.  Having  seen  the  number 
of  women  turned  away  by  the  mail-order  house,  this  scarcity 
of  workers  caused  me  considerable  surprise. 

Drawing  a  card  from  the  file  I  stared  at  it  in  astonish- 
ment. Instead  of  a  distinctly  written  name  and  address 
in  black  ink  on  a  white  card  this  thing  was  in  two  shades 
of  purple,  the  name  and  address  stamped  in  purple  on 
a  thin  glazed  purple  paper  which  was  stretched  on  a  purple 
cardboard  frame.  A  woman  across  the  table  noticing  my 
surprise  explained  that  it  was  stencil-work. 

Becoming  thoroughly  engrossed  by  my  effort  to  make 
out  the  cards,  I  was  startled  when  some  one  announced  that 
it  was  past  eleven  o'clock.  Two  hours  and  a  hah"  had 
passed  and  I  had  addressed  twenty-seven  envelopes.  With 
a  pang  of  horror  I  realized  that  I  could  not  distinguish  the 
features  of  women  less  than  ten  feet  away. 

"Is  this  Blank's  Magazine?"  I  demanded  of  the  as- 
sistant manager.  When  she  replied  in  the  affirmative  my 
indignation,  goaded  by  fear  of  having  permanently  injured 
my  eyes,  frothed  over.  "All  of  my  life — before  I  was  born 
Blank's  Magazine  has  been  proclaiming  its  interest  in  wo- 
men— its  efforts  to  help  working  women.  Here  you  not 
only  underpay  them  but  give  work  to  destroy  their  eyes. 
Take  your  file." 

Snatching  my  hat  and  coat  I  hurried  from  the  building 
without  waiting  to  put  them  on.  Fortunately  the  cold  air 
of  the  street  brought  me  to  my  senses.  Stepping  again 
from  the  building — this  tune  clothed  in  my  right  mind  as 
well  as  my  hat  and  coat — I  took  the  newspaper  from  my 
pocket  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  the  help-wanted 
column. 

The  sheet  was  a  blurred  mass  of  indistinct  figures  and 
lines.  I  could  not  make  out  a  word.  Thoroughly  alarmed 


32        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

I  hurried  back  to  my  room.  There  deciding  to  wait  until 
after  the  lunch-hour  before  consulting  an  oculist,  I  dropped 
down  on  the  bed  and  buried  my  head  in  the  pillow,  deter- 
mined not  to  give  way  to  tears.  The  arrival  of  the  express- 
man with  Alice's  trunk  aroused  me.  It  was  nearly  five 
o'clock  and  my  sight  had  become  normal. 

That  evening  when  Alice  came  from  work  she  found  our 
little  table  set  for  our  first  meal  and  our  dinner  ready  to 
take  up. 

"You'll  have  to  get  out  the  knife  you  brought  from 
home,"  I  explained  after  her  first  gust  of  enthusiasm  had 
subsided.  "Sixty  cents  seemed  about  all  we  could  spare 
this  week  for  kitchen  and  dining-room  furnishings." 

"Sixty  cents!"  she  cried.  "I  was  just  thinking  these 
forks  and  spoons  the  real  thing — things  you  brought  from 
home." 

"Two  and  a  half  cents  each,"  was  my  reply  as  I  set  the 
pan  of  rice  hi  the  centre  of  the  table.  "For  the  present 
we'll  have  to  serve  ourselves  directly  from  the  cooking 
utensils." 

"It  will  save  dish- washing,"  she  approved,  as  she  took  a 
chop  from  the  pie-plate  on  which  it  had  been  broiled.  "But 
where  is  the  soup?" 

"Soup !  You  don't  mean  that  you  expect  both  soup  and 
meat  for  the  same  dinner?" 

"Then  why  soup  plates?" 

Squaring  my  shoulders  I  sat  up  very  proud. 

"You  can  eat  cereals  out  of  a  soup-plate,  you  can  drink 
soup,  when  we  have  it,  out  of  a  soup-plate.  Indeed  you  can 
do  a  lot  of  things  with  a  soup-plate  that  would  be  utterly 
impossible  with  either  a  breakfast  or  a  dinner  plate." 

"So  you  can,"  agreed  Alice.  "And  it  saves  dish-wash- 
ing." 

While  she  washed  up  our  dinner  things  I  made  an  ac- 
count-book of  the  paper  in  which  our  purchases  had  been 


SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS      33 

wrapped.     From  it,  under  date  of  November  14,  1916,  I 
now  copy: 

Gas  stove 10  2  chops 10 

gas  pipe 10  %\b  butter 20 

2  s.  plates 10  Ipt  milk 07 

2  cups 10  1  cereal 05 

2  table  spoons 05  1  bread 06 

2  tea  spoons 05  51bs  sugar 40 

2  forks 05  51bs  rice 39 

2  tins 05  salt 05 

4  bananas .05 

60  6  apples 05 

1.42 

1.42 


$2.02 

The  fruit  was  bought  at  a  push-cart  market,  but  all  the 
other  eatables  at  standard  shops.  In  one  particular  we 
were  fortunate.  Being  Southerners  we  preferred  rice  to 
white  potatoes. 

The  following  morning  we  were  both  out  before  the 
Metropolitan  clock  announced  eight — Alice  to  walk  to 
Jones  Bros,  while  I  hurried  to  look  for  a  new  job.  Answer- 
ing advertisements  I  called  at  six  places  before  ten  o'clock. 
At  each  place  the  applicants  far  outnumbered  the  positions 
to  be  filled.  For  one  clerical  position  there  were  twenty- 
one  applicants,  an  office  wishing  two  addressers  turned  away 
thirty-seven.  At  a  candy  factory  I  found  the  entrance  so 
jammed  by  women,  all  answering  the  advertisement,  that 
a  glance  assured  me  it  would  be  useless  to  wait  my  turn. 

Journeying  farther  up-town  I  made  my  seventh  call. 
It  proved  to  be  one  of  the  largest  publishing  houses  in  the 
country  and  they  advertised  for  both  addressers  and  folders. 
My  face  must  have  expressed  disappointment  on  learning 
from  the  manager  that  he  had  already  taken  on  all  he 
needed.  As  I  started  toward  the  door  he  called  me  back. 

"That  woman  over  there,"  he  said,  indicating  a  vacant 
chair,  "was  telephoned  for.  One  of  her  children  had  come 


34        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

home  from  school  sick.  If  she  doesn't  come  back  in  the 
morning  and  you  are  on  time  I'll  give  you  her  seat.  Be  sure 
to  be  here  before  eight  o'clock." 

Seven-thirty  the  next  morning  found  me  at  the  pub- 
lishing house  and  true  to  his  word  the  manager  gave  me  the 
vacant  chair.  Although  monotonous,  folding,  like  address- 
ing is  not  unpleasant  work.  Busy  fingers  did  not  prevent 
those  women  from  talking  and  I  soon  heard  a  lot  of  gossip 
about  several  of  my  neighbors.  The  young  woman  across 
the  table  from  me  was  the  wife  of  a  chauffeur.  As  she 
worked,  she  used  her  handkerchief  from  time  to  time  to 
absorb  tears  that  rolled  over  her  baby-doll  cheeks. 

Her  husband,  so  the  whisper  ran  around,  was  in  love 
with  his  employer.  This  woman,  according  to  his  wife, 
not  only  gave  the  chauffeur  handsome  presents,  but  held 
long  conversations  with  him  over  the  telephone  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  and  the  last  thing  at  night.  Be- 
sides, she  took  him  to  the  theatre  with  her  and  had  him 
lunch  and  dine  with  her  at  obscure  road-houses  when  they 
went  alone  for  long  drives  into  the  country. 

"How  many  children  have  you?"  I  asked  the  weeping 
woman. 

She  tossed  her  head  scornfully  and  assured  me  and  all  in 
ear-shot  that  she  hadn't  any  and  never  had  intended  to 
have  any,  thank  God!  Not  she,  to  lose  her  shape  for  a 
child!  Later  on  I  remarked  to  an  older  woman  who  sat 
next  to  me  that  I  didn't  see  why  the  chauffeur's  wife  should 
be  so  broken  up — she  called  her  husband  a  scoundrel  and 
they  had  no  children. 

"A  married  woman  hadn't  ought  to  have  to  work," 
my  neighbor  reproved  me.  "Unless  her  husband  is  sick 
or  misfortunate." 

Evidently  her  opinion  was  shared  by  all  my  neighbors. 
This  woman  in  perfect  health,  under  thirty  and  whining, 
actually  shedding  tears  because  she  had  to  work,  had  their 


SLIMY  THINGS  THAT  WALK  ON  LEGS      35 

sympathy.  Not  that  she  was  poorer  or  her  condition  in 
any  way  harder  than  their  own,  but  for  the  single  reason 
that  she  as  a  married  woman  had  a  right  to  be  supported. 
While  turning  this  idea  over  in  my  mind  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  ripple  of  pleased  exclamations. 

A  slender  old  gentleman  had  entered  the  loft  from  the 
elevator  and  was  passing  along  the  aisle  between  the  work- 
ers. The  carnation  in  his  buttonhole  was  not  more  spot- 
lessly white  than  his  hair  and  whiskers.  From  time  to 
time  when  he  would  recognize  a  worker  he  would  pause, 
shake  hands,  and  exchange  a  few  remarks.  At  the  end  of 
our  table  he  greeted  the  woman  in  charge  of  the  folders 
cordially,  told  her  that  he  was  glad  to  see  her  back  and  hoped 
that  she  would  remain  until  the  work  was  finished.  When 
in  reply  to  his  question  she  assured  him  that  everything, 
including  the  delivery  of  the  bottled  milk,  was  being  done 
for  the  workers'  comfort,  he  bowed  to  us  all  and  passed  on. 

The  last  glimpse  I  had  of  him  was  among  the  men  work- 
ers at  the  far  end  of  the  loft.  He  had  stooped  to  pick  up 
the  crutch  of  a  lame  man,  an  old  addresser  who,  I  was  told, 
did  more  than  two  thousand  envelopes  a  day. 

During  the  three  days  and  a  half  that  I  worked  for  that 
firm  I  never  heard  so  much  as  a  whispered  complaint 
against  conditions.  The  loft  in  which  we  worked  was  well 
lighted  and  ventilated.  Though  the  weather  was  bitterly 
cold  it  was  always  comfortably  heated.  The  chairs  were 
comfortable  and  the  tables  of  a  comfortable  height.  Though 
pens  and  ink  and  other  supplies  were  never  wasted,  the 
workers  were  generously  supplied. 

On  Saturday  at  one  o'clock  I  was  paid  eight  dollars. 
It  seemed  a  huge  amount  compared  to  the  six  dollars  I 
might  have  received  had  I  continued  at  the  department 
store. 

Not  having  planned  to  have  Polly  spend  her  life  address- 
ing envelopes  or  folding  circulars,  Monday  morning  found 


36        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

me  again  on  the  tramp,  looking  for  a  job.  At  three  places 
I  turned  away  without  making  my  application  known — 
having  learned  from  experience  that  no  business  occupying 
a  few  small  rooms  has  need  of  twoscore  or  more  workers. 
The  fourth  place  advertised  for  girls  to  count  coupons. 
The  woman  manager  expressed  regret  at  having  filled  her 
last  vacancy.  Then  she  added: 

"If  you  apply  on  the  street  floor,  maybe  Mr.  Spencer 
will  take  you  on.  Tell  him  that  Mrs.  Linwood  sent  you." 

The  street  floor,  to  my  eyes,  had  the  appearance  of  a 
sort  of  general  store — practically  every  article  one  could 
wish  for  was  to  be  seen  and  attractively  arranged.  On 
finding  Mr.  Spencer  I  delivered  Mrs.  Linwood's  message. 

"If  you  are  willing  to  begin  at  seven  dollars  a  week  I 
can  place  you  at  once,"  he  told  me. 

Recalling  that  it  was  a  dollar  more  than  offered  by  the 
department  store  and,  being  in  walking  distance,  would 
require  no  car-fare,  I  promptly  accepted. 

"Been  to  lunch?"  Mr.  Spencer  inquired.  "Better  go 
now.  Take  your  full  hour.  When  you  get  back  report  to 
me." 

Halting  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  I  looked  up  at  the 
sign  across  the  front  of  the  building.  What  had  appeared 
to  me  to  be  a  general  store  was  the  chief  premium  station 
of  a  widely  known  company  that  claimed  to  do  business  on 
a  profit-sharing  basis.  Reading  the  advertisements  of  this 
firm  I  had  always  set  them  down  as  a  set  of  crooks  catering 
to  the  American  craving  to  get  something  for  nothing. 

So  I  had  engaged  to  work  for  crooks ! 


CHAPTER  IV 
AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD 

ON  my  return  from  lunch  Mr.  Spencer  escorted  me  to 
a  counter  marked  " Men's  Department"  and  introduced 
me  to  the  head  of  stock,  Nora  Joyce,  a  neat  young  girl 
with  serious  blue  eyes.  After  introducing  me  to  the  other 
girls  in  the  department  Nora  gave  me  the  stand  next  to  her 
own  and  set  about  explaining  the  work  to  me. 

There  were  one  hundred  and  fifty  different  kinds  of  arti- 
cles behind  that  counter,  all  for  masculine  use.  The  value 
of  each  article  was  reckoned  in  certificates  instead  of  dol- 
lars and  cents.  It  takes  five  coupons  to  make  a  certificate 
and  there  are  half-coupons  and  quarter-coupons. 

It  was  all  very  confusing  at  first.  Noting  the  dexterity 
with  which  the  girls  counted  the  little  slips  of  paper,  the 
ease  with  which  they  recognized  each  kind  by  its  color,  and 
calculated  their  value,  seemed  to  me  nothing  short  of  mar- 
vellous. While  Nora  was  at  lunch  and  while  I  was  immersed 
in  a  sample  package  of  coupons,  struggling  to  impress  their 
color  and  value  on  my  eyes  and  mind,  I  suddenly  realized 
that  some  one  on  the  other  side  of  the  counter  was  speaking 
to  me.  Glancing  up,  my  eyes  encountered  those  of  my  first 
customer. 

"If  you  can  spare  the  time,"  she  said,  with  an  accent  on 
spare,  "I  would  like  a  box  of  men's  hose — black."  She 
was  an  unusually  handsome  young  woman  and  stunningly 
dressed. 

On  my  asking  what  size  she  wished  she  stared  at  me  as 
though  I  had  made  an  impertinent  inquiry. 

"They  are  for  my  husband,"  she  haughtily  informed  me, 
evidently  expecting  that  to  settle  the  matter.  She  could 

37 


38        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

not  tell  me  the  size  of  her  husband's  shoe,  the  size  of  his 
glove,  what  he  weighed,  nor  his  height.  After  many  ques- 
tions she  finally  divulged  that  he  was  not  much  shorter 
than  she  and  that  he  was  quite  thin. 

The  price  of  that  box  of  socks  was  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  coupons.  Imagine  my  feelings  when  that  first  cus- 
tomer of  mine  handed  me  one  hundred  coupons  and  the 
balance  in  quarter-coupons.  And  all  the  while  I  counted 
them  she  stood  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other,  sighed 
heavily,  and  in  other  ways  made  me  aware  of  her  great 
impatience.  Before  I  was  half  through  she  stalked  over 
to  the  manager's  office  and  demanded  to  know  how  much 
longer  she  was  to  be  kept  waiting  for  her  purchase. 

A  few  minutes  after  she  took  her  departure  Mr.  Spencer 
came  across  from  his  office  with  a  little  bench.  It  was 
the  sixth  of  its  kind  behind  our  counter,  and  he  placed  it 
at  my  station. 

"The  management  likes  the  girls  to  sit  down  when  not 
waiting  on  customers,"  he  explained  to  me.  "Sit  down  as 
often  as  you  can." 

That  evening  at  dinner,  when  describing  my  new  posi- 
tion to  Alice,  I  mentioned  the  incident  of  the  little  bench, 
and  added: 

"Crooks  or  honest  folk,  they  are  mighty  pleasant  to  work 
with." 

It  was  later  that  same  night  that  the  tragedy  hovering 
over  our  quiet  rooming-house  first  made  itself  heard.  I 
must  have  been  asleep  for  some  time  when  I  was  suddenly 
awakened  by  a  shriek.  Listening  breathlessly  I  almost 
imagined  that  I  had  dreamed.  A  second  shriek  ending  in 
a  moan!  Jumping  out  of  bed  I  ran  across  the  room  and 
looking  out  the  window  listened.  The  torch  on  the  top 
of  the  Metropolitan  tower  made  the  back  yards  of  that  en- 
tire block  as  bright  as  day.  Everything  was  quiet.  There 
was  not  a  living  creature  to  be  seen. 


AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD  39 

Slipping  on  my  cloak  I  stepped  into  the  hall.  A  young 
man  was  coming  up  the  stairs. 

"Did  you  hear  a  woman  scream?"  I  asked. 

"Just  as  I  came  in  the  front  door,"  he  told  me.  "I'm 
almost  sure  it  came  from  this  floor." 

A  woman  whom  I  had  never  seen  opened  the  door  next 
mine. 

"I'm  the  widow  of  a  policeman,"  she  informed  the  young 
man  and  me.  "I  advise  you  not  to  go  running  around  a 
rooming-house  at  night  when  you  think  you  hear  some- 
body scream.  I  heard  nobody  scream  and  I'm  a  light 
sleeper.  It  was  your  loud  talking  before  my  door  that 
waked  me  up." 

She  looked  the  man  on  the  stairs  over  so  fiercely  that  he 
hastened  to  give  an  account  of  himself — he  was  a  reporter 
for  a  morning  paper  and  seldom  got  in  before  three  in  the 
morning.  On  the  slight  foundation  of  that  conversation 
the  policeman's  widow  appointed  herself  chaperon-in-chief 
to  Alice  and  me.  Her  name  was  Wilkins,  and  we  soon 
learned  that  she  was  a  trimmer  of  men's  stiff  hats. 

Our  circle  of  acquaintances  broadened  so  rapidly  that 
within  a  few  days  it  included  everybody  rooming  on  the 
top  floor.  The  first  of  the  three  front  rooms  was  occupied 
by  a  man  who  kept  a  restaurant;  next  him  lived  a  little 
woman  who  was  organist  in  a  near-by  church ;  while  in  the 
third  lived  a  slender  young  woman,  unusually  pretty,  who 
was  a  milliner.  In  the  front  skylight  room,  companion  to 
the  one  occupied  by  the  reporter,  lived  a  man  who,  accord- 
ing to  Molly,  the  negro  maid,  had  a  walking-stick  and  a 
pan-  of  shoes  to  match  every  pair  of  trousers. 

After  making  a  survey,  as  it  were,  of  the  inhabitants  of 
our  top  floor,  Mrs.  Wilkins  announced  to  Alice  and  me  that 
she  was  convinced  that  the  shrieks  had  come  from  the 
organist. 

"Did  you  ever  see  one  of  'em  at  it  ?  "  she  asked  one  evening 


40        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

when  Alice  and  I  were  in  her  room  being  instructed  in  the 
art  of  stiff-hat  trimming.  "It's  the  hardest  work  ever  I 
seen — playin'  an  organ.  They  pound  with  their  fingers, 
stomp  with  their  feet,  and  butt  with  their  head — all  at  the 
same  tune.  It's  enough  to  give  anybody  nightmare — 
playin'  an  organ." 

At  the  premium  station  as  time  wore  on  I  learned  the 
full  significance  of  the  dreaded  Christmas  rush.  Every 
morning  before  the  store  opened  the  sidewalk  was  banked 
with  people.  As  soon  as  the  doors  were  unlocked  they 
pushed  in,  trampling  everything  before  them  like  a  herd 
of  cattle.  It  seemed  to  me  that  at  least  one-half  of  them 
always  made  straight  for  our  counter. 

There  were  whole  days  when  I  scarcely  raised  my  eyes 
from  the  coupons  I  counted.  Person  after  person  was 
served  without  my  so  much  as  glancing  at  their  faces.  I 
had  become  a  machine.  My  sole  aim  was  to  serve  custom- 
ers as  fast  as  possible,  and  so  lessen  the  crowd  that  packed 
the  space  in  front  of  our  counter. 

And  the  team-work  of  the  girls  behind  that  counter !  I 
never  have  seen  it  equalled.  Never  an  impatient  word  nor 
an  angry  glance.  Whenever  a  desired  article  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  girl  serving  a  customer  some  other  girl 
would  reach  it  for  her.  If  a  customer  contested  the  count 
of  his  coupons — and  they  were  continually  doing  so — the 
next  saleswoman  was  always  ready  to  change  customers 
and  verify  or  correct  the  count. 

Don't  imagine  that  the  low  money  value  of  the  certifi- 
cates and  coupons  prevented  such  incidents.  During  the 
five  weeks  I  served  behind  that  counter  there  were  scores 
of  persons,  men  and  women,  and  most  of  them  well  dressed, 
who  disputed  hotly  over  a  half,  or  even  a  quarter,  coupon. 
One  such  individual  threatened  to  have  me  arrested  if  I 
did  not  "produce"  a  quarter-coupon  which  he  claimed  to 
have  given  me.  He  was  buying  a  pipe  the  value  of  which 


AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD  41 

was  two  hundred  certificates.  In  the  soiled,  crumpled 
mass  of  paper  which  he  handed  me  he  claimed  was  the 
exact  number  required.  My  count  revealed  only  five  hun- 
dred coupons,  with  one  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  quarter-coupons.  I've  often  wondered  what  punish- 
ment a  judge  would  mete  out  to  a  woman  accused  of 
hypothecating  a  half  of  a  mill. 

Of  the  seven  saleswomen  in  our  department — not  count- 
ing myself — there  were  five  Roman  Catholics,  one  Protes- 
tant, and  one  Jewess.  Church  questions  were  not  infre- 
quently touched  on  in  our  conversation.  One  point  on 
which  they  all  agreed  was  that  clergymen  of  all  de- 
nominations were  best  described  by  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders. 

One  day  feeling  Nora's  elbow  on  my  ribs  I  glanced  up 
from  the  coupons  in  my  hand. 

"That's  my  clergyman,"  she  whispered.  "Wait  on  'im, 
please." 

He  proved  to  be  pleasanter  than  I  had  expected  after 
hearing  all  the  girls  behind  the  counter  declaim  against  men 
of  his  cloth.  He  did  become  irritated  when  I  refused  to 
break  a  box  of  silk  socks  for  him.  When  I  explained  that 
it  was  against  the  rules  to  deliver  goods  until  after  the 
coupons  had  been  counted,  he  turned  his  back  on  me.  He 
was  so  much  better  than  some  other  customers  who  had 
fallen  to  my  lot  that  I  remonstrated  with  Nora  for  refus- 
ing to  serve  him. 

"Oh,  I  know  'em!"  she  replied  impatiently.  "See  how 
sleek  and  fat  and  selfish  he  is !  Last  week  one  of  'em  came 
to  our  flat  and  worried  mother  until  she  gave  him  the 
money  she'd  been  saving  for  more  than  six  months  to  get 
herself  a  pair  of  thick  shoes." 

"Much  he  cared  what  she  was  saving  for,"  the  little 
Jewess  chipped  in.  "My  father  keeps  a  butcher-shop,  and 
whenever  mother  sees  a  rabbi  coming  she  hides  everything 


42        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

except  the  toughest  cuts.  They  only  take  the  best,  and 
want  'em  for  nothing." 

"Ministers  are  like  everybody  else,"  the  Protestant  girl 
announced.  "They've  got  to  feather  their  own  nests." 

"What  would  your  minister  say  to  that?"  I  asked  her. 

"My  minister!"  she  scoffed.  "He  don't  know  me  from 
Adam's  cat.  He  never  speaks  to  nobody  off  Fifth  Avenue." 

For  years  I  had  heard  persons,  men  and  women,  declaim 
against  the  incomprehensible  devotion  of  "shop-girls"  to 
chocolate  e'clairs  and  gum-drops.  Indeed  only  a  few  days 
before  quitting  the  National  Arts  Club  I  overheard  a  high- 
priced  music  teacher  declare  that  she  lost  all  patience  with 
"shop-girls"  when  she  saw  them  lunching  on  a  chocolate 
Eclair  instead  of  a  bowl  of  oatmeal  and  milk,  or  of  "good, 
nourishing  soup."  My  five  weeks  behind  the  counter 
furnished  me  with  a  proved  solution  to  the  problem. 

The  first  time  I  tried  lunching  on  a  bowl  of  oatmeal  and 
milk  I  began  to  experience  a  most  uncomfortable  sensation 
under  my  apron  before  three  o'clock.  By  five  that  sensa- 
tion had  become  a  sharp  griping  pain.  The  day  following 
I  tried  soup.  In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  Nora 
learned  how  I  was  suffering,  she  went  scurrying  around 
among  the  girls  in  various  departments  and  returned  with 
three  gum-drops,  which  she  made  me  eat. 

After  that  when  I  had  ten  cents  or  less  to  spend  for  lunch 
I  invested  in  a  chocolate  eclair  and  gum-drops.  Without 
a  doubt  such  a  diet  does  produce  pale  faces  and  a  predis- 
position to  tuberculosis.  Experience  taught  me  that  it 
staves  off  the  griping  agony  produced  by  hunger  and 
standing  on  one's  feet  longer  than  any  other  food  to  be 
had  in  New  York  City  for  the  same  money.  When  a  girl's 
wage  is  seven  dollars  a  week,  or  less,  ten  cents  a  day  is  all 
she  can  spend  for  lunch. 

At  that  time  mothers  on  the  lower  East  Side  were  rioting 
as  a  protest  against  the  high  price  of  milk  and  potatoes. 


AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD  43 

On  the  grocery  floor  of  one  of  the  largest  department  stores, 
where  all  foodstuffs  were  usually  to  be  had  at  rock-bottom 
prices,  onions  were  priced  to  me  at  thirty-nine  cents  the 
pound,  white  potatoes  at  twenty-seven,  and  butter  at  ninety- 
three.  Three  small  bananas  were  offered  and  bought  at 
twenty  cents — a  Saturday-night  bargain. 

Of  course  Alice  and  I  could  afford  none  of  these  luxuries. 
Having  discovered  black-eyed  peas  at  ten  cents  a  pound, 
and  that  a  pound  was  enough  for  four  dinners,  we  vied  with 
each  other  in  proclaiming  our  fondness  for  black-eyed  peas. 
Another  discovery  was  our  mutual  relish  of  peanut  butter. 
We  consumed  it  morning,  noon,  and  night.  As  a  substitute 
for  meat  we  never  found  its  equal. 

During  this  time,  on  several  occasions,  I  had  been  aroused 
by  a  repetition  of  that  piercing  shriek.  Because  no  one 
else  heard  it  I  allowed  Mrs.  Wilkins  and  Alice  to  half- 
persuade  me  that  it  was  a  cat.  Three  times  I  got  out  of 
bed,  and  looking  out  my  window  tried  to  discover  in  the 
brilliantly  lighted  back  yards  the  cat  which  could  so  ex- 
actly imitate  a  human  being  in  agony. 

About  ten  days  before  Christmas  the  entire  population 
of  our  top  floor,  along  with  a  good  many  roomers  in  other 
parts  of  the  house,  was  aroused.  The  shrieks  and  groans 
came  from  the  room  of  the  young  milliner.  After  pound- 
ing in  vain  on  the  milliner's  door  the  organist  ran  down- 
stairs and  returned  followed  by  the  landlady  with  her 
bunch  of  pass-keys.  After  they  entered  the  room  we  saw 
the  restaurant-keeper  hurry  out.  Later  he  returned  with 
a  bottle  of  whiskey.  While  all  this  took  place  Alice,  the 
newspaperman,  and  I  had  been  kept  in  our  rooms  under 
the  stern  guardianship  of  the  policeman's  widow. 

"You  don't  know  what  you'll  get  mixed  up  in  in  a  roomin'- 
house,"  she  warned  us.  "For  all  you  can  tell  all  who  goes 
in  that  room  will  be  hauled  into  court  as  witnesses — maybe 
put  in  jail." 


44       FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

The  next  morning  the  little  organist  came  to  ask  Alice 
and  me  to  use  our  influence  with  Mrs.  Brown,  the  landlady, 
to  prevent  her  from  forcing  the  milliner  to  leave  the  house. 

"Mrs.  Howard  was  in  a  sort  of  stupor  last  night  when 
we  got  in  her  room,"  the  organist  told  us,  referring  to  the 
milliner.  "She  seemed  to  be  suffering  intensely,  and  didn't 
come  round  until  she  had  taken  a  stiff  drink  of  whiskey  and 
I  had  rubbed  her  side.  She  only  wants  to  stay  until  after 
Christmas;  then  she  won't  be  so  rushed  with  work  and  can 
look  around  for  another  room,  but  Mrs.  Brown  says  she  was 
drunk  last  night,  and  must  get  out." 

Later,  on  my  way  to  work,  I  stopped  at  the  door  of 
Mrs.  Brown's  room  for  the  purpose  of  speaking  to  her 
about  the  milliner.  Answering  my  knock  she  came  to  the 
door,  her  face  wreathed  in  smiles.  Without  giving  me 
time  to  open  my  lips,  she  exclaimed: 

"I've  just  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Houghton-Smith," 
she  told  me,  mentioning  the  name  of  one  of  the  most  promi- 
nent women  in  New  York.  "She  wants  me  to  save  her  an 
hour  this  afternoon."  Seeing  that  I  did  not  understand, 
she  added:  "Mrs.  Houghton-Smith  has  me  read  her  vibra- 
tions before  every  one  of  her  visits  to  Washington." 

"Vibrations?"  I  questioned  stupidly. 

"Didn't  you  know  that  I  discovered  the  vibration  the- 
ory?" she  demanded.  "Yes,  indeed.  And  when  I  first 
came  to  New  York  I  held  my  circles  in  the  drawing-rooms 
of  the  most  exclusive  people  in  the  city.  I'd  be  doing  it 
now  if  my  son  wasn't  such  a  fool." 

She  then  informed  me  that  Mrs.  Houghton-Smith  was 
such  a  firm  believer  in  vibrations  that  she  had  tried  to  in- 
duce her,  Mrs.  Brown,  to  go  to  Washington  and  get  Presi- 
dent Wilson's  vibrations.  This  Mrs.  Brown  refused  to  do, 
because,  being  of  American  Revolutionary  stock,  she  felt 
it  would  not  be  well  for  any  person  to  be  in  a  position  to 
control  a  President  of  the  United  States. 


AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD          45 

It  all  sounded  like  pure  nonsense  to  me,  but  that  after- 
noon on  returning  from  work  there  was  a  limousine  stand- 
ing before  the  door.  It  was  a  noticeably  handsome  car. 
The  chauffeur  and  footman  were  in  livery.  Judging  by 
the  brilliant  lights  in  Mrs.  Brown's  rooms  I  was  sure  she 
had  company. 

Three  evenings  later  Alice  burst  into  my  room  while  I 
was  cooking  our  dinner. 

"What  on  earth  has  Bernstorf  been  doing  here?"  she  de- 
manded. "I  met  him  coming  down  the  front  steps." 

"You  mean  the  German  ambassador?"  I  questioned. 

"Exactly  who  I  do  mean.  If  ever  I  saw  him  I  met  him 
on  the  steps.  He  got  in  the  taxi  that  was  waiting  at  the 
curb,  and  turned  up  Fourth  Avenue." 

"Vibrations  must  be  powerful,"  I  remarked,  "to  attract 
such  busy  people  as  Mrs.  Houghton-Smith  and  Count 
Bernstorf." 

Explaining,  I  told  Alice  of  my  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Brown  about  vibrations.  To  both  of  us  it  seemed  a  huge 
joke,  but  when  later  the  two  incidents  were  reported  to 
Mrs.  Wilkins,  she  shook  her  head. 

"Mrs.  Brown  was  a  fortune-teller,"  she  assured  us.  " But 
she  went  under  another  name — something  I-talian,  or 
French.  My  husband  knew  her  when  she  kept  her  car- 
riage and  horses,  and  used  to  go  out  with  swells." 

On  my  way  to  work  the  following  morning  Mrs.  Brown 
waylaid  me  on  the  stairs.  She  caught  me  by  the  sleeve 
and  drew  my  ear  down  to  the  level  of  her  lips. 

"I've  found  it,"  she  whispered  jubilantly. 

"Oh!  I'm  so  glad!"  I  assured  her,  remembering  that 
the  one  safe  way  to  treat  lunatics  was  to  agree  with  all 
they  said. 

"I've  been  concentrating  on  it  for  months,"  she  went 
on.  "Mrs.  Houghton-Smith  is  the  only  person  whose  cur- 
rent I  have  allowed  to  touch  my  own.  I  wouldn't  have 


46        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

taken  even  that  risk  if  I  hadn't  needed  her  help.  She  has 
to  take  it  to  the  President,  you  know." 

Being  a  silent  listener  I  learned  that  Mrs.  Brown's  dis- 
covery was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  way  to  stop  the 
war.  Beyond  the  bare  statement  that  it  had  something 
to  do  with  Mexico,  and  that  only  President  Wilson  would 
be  able  to  turn  the  trick,  she  would  tell  me  nothing.  In 
the  midst  of  her  talk  she  struck  the  banister  sharply  with 
her  fist,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Just  to  think  it  might  all  have  come  to  nothing !  That 
villain  Bernstorf  came  here  last  night.  He  asked  for  me 
by  my  other  name,  and  the  maid  has  orders  never  to  let 
such  callers  in.  He  made  her  bring  up  his  card — said  Mrs. 
Houghton-Smith  had  given  him  my  address.  Had  I  seen 
him  our  currents  would  have  come  into  such  conflict  that 
I  might  never  have  discovered  the  way  to  end  the  war." 

Saturday  before  Christmas  the  crush  in  the  premium 
station  was  so  great  that  several  times  the  doors  were  closed 
to  keep  more  customers  from  crowding  in.  There  was  never 
a  break  in  the  crowd  before  our  counter.  More  than  once 
Mr.  Spencer  wedged  his  way  through  the  packed  humanity 
to  tell  us  to  keep  our  seats  while  waiting  on  customers. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  waiting  throng  and  called  out: 

"You  people  must  have  patience.  I  won't  have  my  girls 
killing  themselves." 

When  six  o'clock  came,  though  he  had  the  doors  closed 
promptly,  there  was  such  a  crowd  inside  that  it  was  well 
past  seven  before  the  station  could  be  cleared.  Even  then 
he  had  to  forbid  the  salespeople  waiting  on  any  more  cus- 
tomers, and  ordered  us  out  from  behind  the  counters. 

On  reaching  my  room  I  found  Alice  and  Mrs.  Wilkins 
waiting  for  me  with  my  dinner  nice  and  hot.  On  trying 
to  explain  my  delay  I  found  that  I  could  not  pronounce  the 
words  needed  by  my  mind  to  express  my  thoughts.  In- 
tuitively, it  would  seem,  Alice  recognized  what  was  the 
matter. 


AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD  47 

"Wait!"  she  cried,  springing  up.  "Don't  try  to  say  a 
word.  Get  her  undressed,  Mrs.  Wilkins.  I'll  be  right 
back." 

She  dashed  into  her  room  and  came  racing  back  with 
two  white  pellets  and  a  glass  of  cold  water.  As  soon  as  I 
swallowed  the  pellets  they  put  me  to  bed,  and  I  imagine 
that  as  soon  as  my  head  touched  the  pillow  I  fell  asleep. 

On  waking  the  next  day  I  found  Mrs.  Wilkins  standing 
over  me  with  a  bowl  of  hot  milk.  It  was  after  two  o'clock. 
Every  time  I  opened  my  eyes  during  that  afternoon  either 
Mrs.  Wilkins  or  Alice  insisted  on  my  eating  something, 
which  they  always  had  ready. 

Later  Alice  explained  that  she  had  suffered  from  a  similar 
breakdown  from  overstudy  during  a  college  exam.  The 
two  white  pellets  were  left  over  from  that  attack. 

Two  nights  later  the  whole  house  was  aroused  by  the 
milliner's  shrieks.  We  learned  that  she  had  been  suffer- 
ing almost  nightly,  but  because  of  timely  care  given  by 
the  restaurant-keeper  and  the  organist,  her  attacks  had 
been  checked  before  becoming  acute.  Now  it  so  happened 
that  the  restaurant  man  had  been  called  out  of  town,  and 
the  little  organist,  fatigued  by  rehearsing  her  choir  for 
Christmas,  had  not  been  aroused  in  tune. 

Recalling  Mrs.  Brown's  threat  to  turn  the  girl  out  if  she 
again  disturbed  her  roomers,  Alice  and  I  stopped  in  to  see 
the  landlady  on  our  way  to  work.  We  explained  that  the 
milliner  only  wished  to  remain  until  the  Christmas  rush  hi 
her  trade  was  over.  After  that  she  would  be  able  to  re- 
turn to  her  home  in  Vermont  or  find  another  room.  The 
landlady  was  so  stubborn  that  Alice  was  finally  forced  to 
use  her  trump  card. 

"My  mother  has  ordered  me  to  come  home  for  Christmas 
— sent  me  a  railroad  ticket.  I  am  leaving  to-morrow  im- 
mediately on  leaving  work.  If  you  have  really  promised 
Mrs.  Howard's  room  to  another  person,  I'll  ask  her  to  use 


48        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

my  room  until  my  return.  I  paid  my  rent  yesterday,  you 
remember." 

Finding  that  we  were  both  determined  to  see  that  the 
milliner  got  a  square  deal,  Mrs.  Brown  agreed  not  to  give 
her  any  more  trouble,  to  allow  her  to  remain  until  the  end 
of  the  milliners'  season. 

That  day  a  circular  letter  from  the  firm,  addressed  to 
•their  employees  in  the  premium  station,  aroused  the  little 
Jewess. 

"The  owners !"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  always  the  owners. 
In  the  subway  they've  even  got  papers  stuck  on  the  win- 
dows, urging  us  to  pay  higher  fares  so  that  the  owners  can 
get  bigger  dividends.  I'm  tired  working  for  the  owners." 

"Who  is  not?"  Nora  demanded. 

"You  said  it !"  the  Protestant  girl  added. 

Though  most  of  the  articles  being  sold  at  the  premium 
station  were  for  Christmas  presents,  there  was  not  much 
talk  of  Christmas  behind  the  counters.  The  day  preceding 
the  holiday  one  girl  joyfully  confided  to  us  all  that  her 
mother  had  promised  the  family  a  turkey  dinner. 

"Turkey!"  Nora  exclaimed.  Then  she  turned  to  me. 
"Groceries  have  gone  up  so  that  it  takes  all  father  and  I 
can  do  to  get  the  cheapest  sorts  of  food  for  the  children. 
Mother  is  a  fine  buyer,  but  we  never  have  meat  more 
than  once  a  day.  Then  it  is  only  stew  or  fish.  I  used  to 
couldn't  bear  either,  but  you'll  eat  anything  when  you're 
real  hungry  and  dog-tired." 

Late  that  afternoon  Mr.  Spencer  stopped  at  my  end  of 
the  counter.  He  had  been  watching  me,  he  said,  and  he 
liked  the  way  I  worked.  If  I  wished  to  come  back  after 
Christmas  he  would  be  glad  to  give  me  a  permanent  posi- 
tion. Though  I  had  never  intended  to  remain  longer  than 
the  holiday  rush,  his  manner  was  so  pleasant,  so  sincerely 
appreciative,  that  before  I  realized  it  I  had  promised  to 
report  the  day  after  Christmas. 


AGAINST  A  RUSH  OF  THE  HERD  49 

That  evening,  Christmas  Eve,  on  returning  from  work  I 
found  a  white  sheet  spread  on  the  floor  of  the  hall,  just 
within  the  front  door  and  by  the  side  of  the  stairs.  The 
lines  into  which  the  sheet  had  fallen  struck  me  as  peculiar, 
and  I  paused  on  the  stairs  and  stared  down  at  it.  My  eyes 
wandering  farther  made  out  the  uniform  of  a  policeman  in 
the  dusk  of  the  rear  hall. 

"That's  Mrs.  Howard,"  the  voice  of  the  little  organist 
told  me  as  she  developed  from  the  shadow  beyond  the 
policeman.  "She  was  taken  sick  while  at  work,  this  morn- 
ing— they  sent  her  home  in  a  cab.  When  I  got  a  doctor  he 
said  she  must  go  at  once  to  a  hospital.  She  died  as  the 
stretcher-bearers  were  bringing  her  down  the  stairs.  She 
has  to  remain  here  on  the  floor  until  the  coroner  comes." 

"Heart  trouble?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  The  doctor  said  it  was  brought  on  by  overwork 
and  underfeeding."  The  little  organist's  voice  trembled, 
and  she  gulped  down  a  sob  as  she  added:  "And  on  Christmas 
Eve,  too!" 

"And  hi  a  Christian  country,"  I  agreed.  "In  the  richest 
city  in  the  world." 

That  Christmas  was  the  first  holiday  I  ever  really  appre- 
ciated. Remaining  in  bed  the  entire  day  I  subsisted  on  a 
loaf  of  stale  bread  and  two  specked  apples,  both  left-overs 
of  the  hat-trimmer,  who  had  gone  to  spend  a  week  with 
her  brother  in  Jersey. 

During  the  second  week  in  January  Mr.  Spencer  again 
brought  up  the  question  of  my  becoming  a  regular  sales- 
woman in  the  premium  station.  Nora  thought  he  planned 
to  make  me  head  of  stock  at  a  near-by  counter.  Forced  to 
give  him  a  definite  answer,  I  told  him  that  conditions  at 
my  home  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  leave  New  York — I 
would  give  up  my  job  at  the  end  of  that  week.  On  my 
telling  him  good-by  he  assured  me  that  he  would  always 
have  an  opening  for  me  whenever  I  chose  to  return. 


50       FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Alice  and  the  hat-trimmer  were  the  only  persons  who 
knew  that  I  had  signed  a  contract  with  the  Sea  Foam 
Hotel,  a  large  hotel  at  a  well-known  resort.  I  was  to  serve 
as  waitress. 


CHAPTER  V 
HUMAN  COOTIES 

WHEN  planning  my  adventure  as  Polly  Preston,  the 
heroine  of  my  proposed  novel,  the  idea  of  including  domes- 
tic service  did  not  occur  to  me.  It  was  Alice  who  first 
caused  me  to  consider  such  an  experience.  Telling  why 
she  had  given  up  her  position  in  the  institution  for  defec- 
tive children,  she  had  exclaimed: 

"I  was  engaged  as  a  teacher — the  people  at  college  all 
understood  I  was  to  have  a  teacher's  position.  After  they 
got  me  there  they  treated  me  like  a  servant." 

Thinking  over  this  incident,  I  wondered  how  it  felt  to 
be  treated  as  a  servant.  Were  well-bred  people  really  so 
disagreeable  to  those  who  served  them?  How  had  the 
servants  at  home  looked  upon  our  household  ?  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  they  found  fault  with  my  mother's  treatment  of 
them?  If  so,  in  what  particular  had  she  failed? 

These  thoughts  called  to  mind  words  of  the  late  Franklin 
B.  Sanborn  when  recounting  to  me  his  recollections  of 
Louisa  M.  Alcott.  It  was  near  the  end  of  a  perfect  Octo- 
ber day  spent  rambling  about  Concord  with  Mr.  Sanborn 
as  my  escort.  After  spending  some  time  in  the  School  of 
Philosophy  we  crossed  to  the  Alcott  house  and,  going  up- 
stairs, took  our  seats  near  the  window  at  which  Miss  Alcott 
sat  when  writing  "Little  Women."  Mr.  Sanborn  had  been 
talking  continuously  for  several  minutes  when  suddenly  he 
stopped  and  sat  looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window. 

"Louisa  was  wonderful!"  he  exclaimed,  beginning  to 
talk  as  suddenly  as  he  had  stopped.  "Yes,  she  was  won- 
derful. Even  to  the  last  she  was  as  ready  to  experiment 

51 


52        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

as  she  had  been  when  a  young  girl."  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  then  added  in  a  different  tone:  "It  was  that  that 
caused  her  to  try  going  out  as  a  domestic  servant."  He 
shook  his  head.  "It  was  a  mistake.  It  was  a  mistake. 
Even  Louisa  couldn't  stand  that." 

Now  recalling  these  words,  I  wondered  what  it  was  that 
even  Louisa  could  not  stand.  Louisa,  the  woman  whom 
Mr.  Sanborn  had  described  as  wonderful,  with  a  heart 
overflowing  with  love  and  human  kindliness.  What  was 
it  that  even  such  a  woman  could  not  stand? 

Thinking  of  the  women  and  girls  with  whom  I  had  worked, 
I  wondered  why  some  of  them  who  appeared  so  sensible 
should  persist  hi  a  struggle  to  eke  out  a  half-starved  exist- 
ence on  such  low  wages  when  in  domestic  service  they  would 
get  all  the  comforts  of  a  good  home  along  with  wages.  All 
my  life  I  had  heard  persons,  experienced  men  and  women, 
protesting  against  this  condition.  Some  of  them  had  gone 
so  far  as  to  assert  that  there  should  be  laws  prohibiting 
women  and  girls  from  working  in  shops  and  factories — so 
forcing  them  into  domestic  service. 

Once  while  working  in  the  premium  station  I  attempted 
to  discuss  the  subject  with  Nora. 

"Not  that !"  the  girl  cried,  the  lines  hi  her  forehead  con- 
tracting into  little  knots.  "I'll  go  to  the  river  first." 

Nora  was  a  sensible  girl.  Why  should  she  feel  like  that  ? 
She  helped  her  mother  with  the  work  of  their  little  flat. 
She  washed  her  own  clothes  and  on  Sunday  enjoyed  cook- 
ing dinner.  She  made  many  of  her  own  clothes  and  helped 
sew  for  her  younger  brothers  and  sisters.  She  looked  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  the  young  man  to  whom  she  was 
engaged  would  earn  enough  for  them  to  marry.  She  ex- 
pected to  do  her  own  housework.  Then  why  should  she 
object,  and  so  passionately,  to  doing  housework  for  which 
she  was  paid,  to  becoming  a  domestic  servant? 

The  problem  haunted  me  for  weeks.     During  that  period 


HUMAN  COOTIES  53 

every  time  I  looked  over  the  help-wanted  columns  of  cer- 
tain papers  I  saw  that  Sea  Foam  Hotel  was  in  need  of 
chambermaids  and  waitresses.  Not  until  I  had  mailed  my 
letter  applying  for  a  position  as  chambermaid  did  I  mention 
it  to  Alice  and  Mrs.  Wilkins. 

The  expression  of  horror  that  sprang  into  Alice's  eyes 
was  somewhat  moderated  when  the  hat-trimmer  expressed 
her  satisfaction.  She  declared  it  would  be  the  very  best 
thing  Alice  and  I  could  do — both  go  to  the  seashore  as 
hotel  help.  What  could  we  save  on  seven  and  eight  dollars 
a  week?  She  by  sitting  up  evenings  to  make  the  little 
bows  used  on  the  inside  of  men's  stiff  hats,  hi  addition  to 
regular  nine  hours  a  day  six  days  a  week,  was  only  able  to 
get  twelve  dollars  a  week. 

Then  gouging  down  in  her  stocking  she  drew  out  a  roll 
of  bills. 

"There!"  she  said,  throwing  the  money  into  my  lap. 
"You  can  count  it  yourself.  I've  been  workin'  since  the 
middle  of  September — nearly  four  months — and  that's  all 
I've  saved.  You  know  how  plain  I  eat  and  I  ain't  spent  as 
much  as  ten  dollars  for  clothes.  Count  it." 

Eleven  one-dollar  bills. 

"The  only  time  I  can  save  money,"  she  went  on,  "is 
durin'  the  summer  I  works  in  the  linen-room  of  a  hotel 
down  on  Coney  Island.  The  eatin'  is  somethin'  grand. 
Because  there  ain't  room  enough  in  the  hotel  for  us  linen- 
room  girls  they  allows  us  three  dollars  a  week  extra.  Last 
summer  I  and  another  girl  got  a  room  for  fifteen  dollars  a 
month.  Besides  savin'  our  wages  we  both  had  somethin' 
left  of  our  room  money." 

The  elaborate  prospectus — "Information  for  Waitresses," 
it  was  headed — described  in  such  glowing  terms  the  many 
advantages  provided  for  the  help  of  the  Sea  Foam  that 
Mrs.  Wilkins  all  but  threw  up  her  hat- trimming  job  to  go 
with  me. 


54        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"It  must  be  grand!"  she  exclaimed.  "To  get  such 
good  things  to  eat  all  the  year  round  as  they  give  us  at 
Coney  in  the  summer.  Sure,  you'll  get  it  at  that  hotel ! 
That  place  is  sweller  than  Coney.  An'  your  tips  will  be 
bigger,  too." 

When  I  called  her  attention  to  the  statement  that  wait- 
resses serving  hi  the  side  halls  received  sixteen  dollars  a 
month  while  those  serving  in  the  main  dining-room  only 
got  thirteen  she  urged  me  to  "sign  up"  for  a  side  hall  job. 
Side  hall  she  assured  me  meant  a  piazza  glassed  in  or  a 
sun  parlor. 

"Them's  the  places  real  swells  like  to  eat  in  so  they  can 
see  things  whilst  they're  eatin',"  she  insisted.  "They'll  be 
further  from  the  kitchen  and  serving-room,  but  you'll  get 
bigger  tips.  Better  'sign  up'  for  the  job  in  the  side  hall." 

And  she  talked  so  much  about  the  grand  food  supplied 
by  the  Coney  Island  hotel  and  the  grander  food  that  I  was 
sure  to  get  at  the  Sea  Foam  that  I  used  to  dream  about  it. 
For,  though  Alice  and  I  were  not  actually  starving,  we  had 
suppressed  our  craving  for  food  to  such  an  extent  that  pass- 
ing a  bake-shop  or  a  restaurant  caused  an  unpleasant  sen- 
sation. I  had  gone  off  seventeen  pounds  in  weight,  and 
Alice  was  so  thin  that  she  didn't  dare  get  on  the  scales. 

When  buying  my  ticket  I  learned  that  the  rates  quoted 
by  the  prospectus  had  been  out  of  date  more  than  five 
years.  On  arriving  at  Belgrave  House,  the  waitresses' 
dormitory,  I  mentioned  to  the  housekeeper  as  she  reg- 
istered me  that  I  wished  to  buy  one  of  the  black  and  one 
of  the  white  uniforms,  also  mentioned  in  the  prospectus 
as  being  supplied  at  wholesale  prices.  She  showed  con- 
siderable embarrassment.  Waitresses,  she  explained,  had 
not  liked  the  cut  of  the  skirts,  so  there  was  not  a  full  line  on 
hand. 

Those  skirts !  They  were  of  that  period  when  the  hour- 
glass was  the  model  of  feminine  grace  and  elegance.  The 


HUMAN  COOTIES  55 

largest  waist  measure  in  stock  was  nineteen  inches.  That 
skirt  was  forty-four  inches  long  and  measured  more  than 
six  yards  around  the  bottom.  Having  to  go  on  duty  within 
three  hours,  I  was  forced  to  get  something  in  the  way  of  a 
uniform.  Fortunately,  on  a  pinch,  I  can  cut  and  sew. 
Buying  a  black  and  a  white  skirt — dimensions,  nineteen  by 
forty-four  inches  by  six  yards — I  set  to  work. 

After  shortening  the  white  skirt  and  making  it  wider  at 
the  top  and  narrower  at  the  bottom  I  rushed  to  the  board- 
walk, where  I  bought  a  white  and  a  black  shirtwaist. 

Of  course,  they  cost  me  three  times  as  much  as  they 
were  selling  for  in  New  York. 

The  waitresses'  dinner  was  in  progress  when  I  presented 
myself  in  my  uniform.  The  assistant  housekeeper  of  Bel- 
grave  being  at  the  desk,  she  conducted  me  into  the  large, 
poorly  lighted  dining-room  and  found  me  a  vacant  chair 
at  a  table  for  eight.  During  the  meal,  when  the  waitress 
next  me  cordially  offered  her  help,  I  asked  if  she  was  sta- 
tioned in  the  main  dining-room  or  the  side-hall.  After 
saying  she  was  in  the  main  dining-room  she  shut  up  like  a 
clam.  Every  effort  to  learn  where  and  what  the  side-hall 
was  met  an  unmistakable  rebuff.  Puzzled,  and  a  little  bit 
miffed,  I  at  length  said  to  the  waitress  who  had  offered  me 
her  assistance: 

"You'll  be  helping  me  a  lot  if  you  will  tell  me  what  to 
do  to  get  a  good  station."  Then,  including  all  at  table, 
for  I  knew  they  were  all  listening,  I  added:  "You  see,  this 
is  my  first  time  in  a  hotel.  I've  always  worked  in  a  private 
family.  Please  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"Follow  along  with  us  when  we  report  for  dinner,  take 
your  seat  in  the  back  of  the  dining-room,  and  wait  till  the 
head  waiter  comes,"  she  told  me. 

"When  the  head  waiter  sees  you  sitting  there  he'll  know 
you're  new  and  give  you  a  station,"  another  waitress  added. 
"You  just  follow  along  with  us." 


56       FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Following  these  directions  took  me  through  a  covered 
passageway  connecting  Belgrave  with  the  Sea  Foam. 
From  this  we  entered  a  large  kitchen  which,  on  my  first 
entrance,  seemed  thronged  with  men — black  and  white. 
From  the  kitchen  we  went  down  a  long  flight  of  unusually 
steep  stairs  to  a  basement  passageway  in  which  I  got  my 
first  glimpse  of  a  tune-clock.  After  punching  her  tune  the 
waitress  who  had  spoken  to  me  at  dinner  signalled  for  me 
to  follow  her. 

"That  is  the  side-hall  dining-room,"  she  told  me,  indi- 
cating a  large  basement  room,  rudely  equipped  with  tables 
and  chairs.  "It's  where  the  office  help,  housekeepers,  and 
linen-room  girls  eat."  We  turned  and  were  going  back  up 
the  steep  stairs  when  she  asked:  "Did  you  notice  that  the 
assistant  housekeeper  of  Belgrave  is  lame?" 

"She's  so  lame  that  she  can  hardly  walk,"  I  exclaimed. 
"I  had  to  notice  it." 

"She  served  in  the  side-hall,"  the  girl  told  me,  still  speak- 
ing half  under  her  breath.  "She  fell  down  these  steps 
with  a  loaded  tray  and  was  hi  the  hospital  for  more  than  a 
year.  She's  got  her  position  for  life.  The  Sea  Foam  has 
to  take  care  of  her." 

From  the  kitchen  we  passed  through  a  long  serving- 
room  and  from  that  we  entered  the  Sea  Foam  dining-room. 
It  was  a  spacious  one  with  rows  of  very  broad  windows  on 
four  sides,  those  on  three  sides  giving  a  splendid  view  of 
the  ocean.  The  walls,  woodwork,  and  the  slender  pillars 
supporting  the  ceiling  were  white  enamel.  There  was  a 
long  strip  of  blue-gray  velvet  carpet  extending  from  the 
door  the  entire  length  of  the  room.  The  steam-radiators, 
which  almost  encircled  the  room,  were  so  brilliantly  gilded 
that  I  almost  imagined  them  covered  with  gold-leaf. 

At  dinner  I  was  stationed  at  a  table  of  six  covers.  My 
guests,  I  soon  learned,  were  the  family  of  a  multimillionaire 


HUMAN  COOTIES  57 

— wife,  three  small  children,  their  French  governess,  and  a 
trained  nurse.  For  the  first  three  meals  I  worked  under 
the  supervision  of  Anna,  a  waitress  who  had  been  in  the 
Sea  Foam  for  more  than  six  months.  One  of  her  first  in- 
structions was: 

"Don't  pay  no  attention  to  her,"  indicating  the  million- 
aire's wife.  "  She'll  work  your  head  off  and  won't  give  you 
so  much  as  a  thank-you." 

This  family  took  their  meals  in  two  sections — the  chil- 
dren with  the  governess  and  nurse,  the  mother  alone.  At 
the  first  dinner  I  served  without  the  assistance  of  Anna 
the  mistress  of  millions  wrote  her  order  as  follows: 

"Two  portions  of  oysters  on  the  hah*  shell,  two  portions 
of  olives,  two  portions  of  asparagus,  two  portions  of  the 
heart  of  lettuce  without  dressing,  two  portions  of  fried 
oysters,  eight  portions  of  the  heart  of  celery,  six  portions 
of  radishes,  two  portions  of  apples,  two  portions  crystal- 
lized ginger,  two  cups  of  hot  chocolate,  two  portions  of 
crackers,  two  portions  of  cheese,  two  portions  of  squabs, 
two  portions  of  green  peas,  two  portions  of  queen  fritters, 
two  portions  of  chocolate  ice-cream,  and  two  portions  of 
cake." 

She  ordered  me  to  bring  it  all  in  on  the  same  tray,  as  she 
did  not  wish  to  be  kept  waiting.  When  one  recalls  the 
weight  of  hotel  china  and  the  custom  of  covering  each  dish 
with  one  a  size  smaller,  the  physical  impossibility  of  obey- 
ing this  order  will  be  understood.  Following  Anna's  in- 
structions, I  "paid  no  attention"  to  the  millionaire's  wife. 
It  required  three  trays  as  heavy  as  I  could  lift  to  get  her 
dinner  in  to  her. 

Each  tune  I  returned  from  the  kitchen  I  found  her  in 
the  act  of  trying  to  complain  to  the  assistant  head  waiter. 
She  grumbled  at  me  because  I  did  not  stand  behind  her 
chair  and  put  the  dishes  before  her  as  fast  as  she  wanted 
them.  Of  course,  she  did  not  eat  all  she  ordered.  She 


58        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

only  cut  a  bit  from  the  breast  of  both  squabs,  selected  the 
oysters  that  suited  her  fancy,  nibbled  at  the  innermost 
hearts  of  the  lettuce  and  the  celery.  What  her  dinner 
really  amounted  to  was  rendering  unfit  for  use  food  which 
would  have  fed  six  hungry  women.  The  ginger  and  the 
fruit  she  carried  away  in  her  work-bag. 

Had  this  woman  been  coarse  or  ordinary  in  appearance 
I  might  have  felt  sorry  for  her  lack  of  breeding.  She  was 
quite  the  reverse.  She  was  small,  with  a  piquantly  pretty 
face  and  a  pretty  plump  figure.  She  knew  how  to  dress — 
wore  beautiful  clothes  at  the  right  times  and  painted  her 
cheeks  and  lips  only  in  the  evening.  Her  hands,  though 
not  beautiful  in  shape,  were  exquisitely  kept;  all  of  her 
numerous  rings  were  handsome.  She  seldom  wore  more 
than  two  besides  her  wedding-ring,  and  they  were  always 
appropriate. 

The  cause  of  her  ill-breeding  was  her  selfishness.  She 
was  determined  to  get  all  that  was  coming  to  her  and  could 
not  tolerate  any  person  from  whom  she  could  gain  nothing. 
She  was  a  typical  daughter  of  a  horse-leech — however  much 
she  had  she  must  still  cry  "Give." 

At  the  end  of  my  first  week  practically  all  the  waitresses 
urged  me  to  ask  the  head  waiter  to  give  me  another  station. 
A  waitress,  they  assured  me,  was  never  expected  to  serve 
longer  than  one  week  at  a  table  where  tips  were  not  given. 
As  kindly  as  this  advice  was  intended  it  did  not  happen 
to  suit  my  case — not  exactly.  Never  again,  in  human 
probability,  I  reasoned,  would  so  good  an  opportunity  to 
study  this  type  of  American  come  my  way. 

The  millionaire  paid  two  visits  to  his  family  while  I  was 
serving  them.  During  each  visit  he  took  five  meals.  A 
Sunday  dinner  when  he  and  his  wife  ate  alone  is  memorable. 
After  ordering  practically  everything  on  the  menu,  and  just 
as  I  imagined  them  ready  to  leave  the  table,  he  turned  on 
me  and  demanded  white  potatoes.  He  said  that  he  had 


HUMAN  COOTIES  59 

ordered  mashed  potatoes  and  that  I  had  failed  to  bring 
them.  His  attack  was  so  unexpected  that  I  was  dumb. 
Not  so  Anna. 

Crossing  to  the  table  she  pulled  a  platter  from  among  the 
pile  of  soiled  dishes  surrounding  his  plate  and  held  it  out 
to  him, 

"There's  your  white  potatoes,"  she  told  him.  "You 
done  eat  'em." 

Several  days  before  Easter  this  family  departed.  I  had 
served  them  three  hundred  and  seventy-nine  elaborate 
meals,  been  found  fault  with,  rudely  ordered  about,  grum- 
bled at,  and  might  have  been  reprimanded  by  the  head 
waiter  had  he  not,  having  learned  that  no  tips  were  to  be 
expected,  studiously  kept  away  from  then*  table.  My  tip 
was  a  soiled  one-dollar  bill  ungraciously  given.  It  was 
one  hundred  cents  more  than  any  of  their  former  waitresses 
had  received,  and  they  had  been  stopping  hi  the  hotel  for 
more  than  four  months. 

The  family  occupied  five  of  the  most  expensive  rooms  in 
the  hotel  and  monopolized  the  services  of  two  chamber- 
maids and  a  scrubwoman.  There  was  not  a  week  while  I 
was  serving  them  that  the  wife  did  not  make  at  least  one 
trip  to  one  of  the  neighboring  cities.  On  her  return  she  in- 
variably boasted  to  any  waitress  who  would  listen  of  the 
amount  of  money  she  had  spent  and  the  expensive  clothes 
she  had  bought.  At  one  dinner  she  wore  a  wonderful  eve- 
ning gown,  for  which  she  stated  she  had  paid  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars. 

Knowing  the  wages  paid  to  working  women  in  New 
York  at  that  time,  I  wondered  what  per  cent  of  that  sum 
had  reached  the  women  who  had  made  the  gown.  What 
was  their  weekly  wage? 

It  was  not,  however,  the  conduct  of  this  family  of  mil- 
lionaires that  convinced  me  before  I  had  been  a  week  at 
the  Sea  Foam  that  domestic  service  is  very  different  from 


60        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

what  I  had  imagined.  In  the  first  place  I  had  always  as- 
sumed that  hotel  waiters  had  the  same  food  as  the  guests, 
certainly  what  was  left  over.  Such,  I  was  assured  by  the 
head  waiter  and  the  steward,  is  the  custom  only  in  "cheap 
joints."  At  the  Sea  Foam,  if  a  waitress  ate  so  much  as  a 
mouthful  of  food  left  by  a  guest  she  was  discharged  in 
disgrace.  • 

Our  food — that  is,  the  food  prepared  in  the  kitchen  of 
Belgrave  House — was  the  worst  I  have  ever  tried  to  swallow. 
During  my  second  week,  the  breakfast  being  more  uneat- 
able than  usual,  I  complained  to  Mary,  my  roommate. 
Mary  was  scrubwoman  and  maid  of  all  work  in  the  Bel- 
grave  kitchen.  I  asked  her  why,  if  they  were  going  to  send 
us  scraps  of  meat  over  from  the  Sea  Foam,  it  was  not 
properly  cooked  ? 

She  assured  me  that  the  only  food  sent  from  the  hotel 
were  the  meals  for  the  Belgrave  housekeeper.  In  proof  of 
this  she  took  me  down  to  the  kitchen  of  the  dormitory  and 
showed  me  the  box  of  sliced  bacon  from  which  what  I  had 
called  "meat  scraps"  had  been  taken.  It  was  the  best 
grade. 

Mary  explained  that  the  cook  had  emptied  half  of  the 
contents  of  a  box  into  a  huge  pan  and  put  it  over  the  fire. 
To  keep  it  from  burning  he  stirred  it  around  from  time  to 
tune,  then  ladled  the  mass  into  dishes  and  sent  it  into  the 
dining-room.  That  bacon  is  a  fair  sample  of  the  food 
served  in  the  waitresses'  dining-room  while  I  worked  at 
the  Sea  Foam. 

What  the  consequences  might  have  been  had  the  wait- 
resses been  supplied  with  sufficient  amount  of  palatable 
food  may  be  questioned.  As  to  what  actually  happened 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  "Dog  tired"  from  overwork  and  a 
lack  of  food,  a  large  majority  of  the  waitresses  hurried  to 
the  seashore  immediately  on  leaving  the  dining-room  after 
dinner.  Often  this  was  after  nine  o'clock  at  night. 


HUMAN  COOTIES  61 

Their  first  trip  was  taken  in  search  of  food.  Accom- 
panied by  two  of  my  fellow  waitresses,  I  made  such  a  trip 
the  night  after  my  arrival.  Twenty  men,  hi  groups  of  two 
or  more,  invited  us  to  eat  with  them.  It  is  a  question 
easily  settled  when  a  girl  has  money,  but  when  she  has  no 
money  and  is  hungry,  what  then?  This  is  no  abnormal 
appetite  created  by  sea  air.  It  is  hard  work  and  lack  of 
food  at  OUT  regular  meals. 

Another  of  my  misapprehensions.  I  had  fancied  that  the 
duty  of  a  waiter  or  a  waitress  was  to  serve  food,  three  meals 
a  day.  Time  between  meals  I  assumed  they  were  free  to 
use  as  they  pleased. 

When  on  regular  duty  a  waitress  at  the  Sea  Foam  reports 
for  breakfast  not  later  than  a  quarter  before  seven.  To 
do  this  I  had  to  rise  at  five  forty-five.  In  that  hour  I  had 
to  take  my  bath,  dress,  make  my  bed,  straighten  up  my 
room,  eat  my  breakfast,  punch  the  time-clock  in  the  base- 
ment of  the  hotel,  and  get  in  the  dining-room  before  the 
time  mentioned.  If  so  much  as  a  fraction  of  a  second  late 
the  door  was  bolted  against  me. 

Though  breakfast  was  supposed  to  end  at  nine,  a  waitress 
seldom,  almost  never,  got  rid  of  her  guests  until  a  half- 
hour  later.  Then  came  the  collection  of  used  napkins  and 
table-cloths  and  exchanging  them  for  fresh  ones.  Next 
the  washing  and  polishing  of  silver  and  glass,  the  cleaning 
and  filling  of  sugar-bowls,  water-bottles,  salt-shakers, 
pepper-shakers,  vinegar-cruets,  oil-bottle,  and,  last  though 
by  no  means  least,  the  arranging  of  cut  flowers.  After  this 
was  all  accomplished  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  head  waiter 
or  his  assistant  the  chairs,  side-tables,  radiators,  and  all  the 
woodwork  in  the  dining-room  had  to  be  gone  over  with  a 
damp  cloth.  Then  came  the  setting  of  the  tables,  leaving 
them  ready  for  the  next  meal.  It  was  seldom  we  got 
through  this  morning  work  before  eleven. 

Between  that  time  and  twelve-fifty  there  was  always 


62        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

more  than  enough  personal  work  to  be  done — washing  and 
ironing  one's  clothes,  polishing  one's  shoes,  mending,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  little  odds  and  ends  that  must  be  prompt- 
ly attended  to  if  a  waitress  is  to  appear  well  groomed. 

The  prospectus  sent  me  before  I  left  New  York  distinctly 
stated  that  the  laundry  of  waitresses  was  done  by  the  hotel 
free  of  charge.  When  I  inquired  about  sending  my  clothes 
to  the  hotel  laundry  all  the  waitresses  shook  their  heads. 
I  might  take  the  risk  if  I  had  a  mind,  they  told  me,  but  so 
far  as  their  experience  went  garments  were  seldom  returned, 
never  in  as  good  condition  as  when  sent  out.  On  learning 
that  the  two  waitresses  who  had  been  in  the  employ  of  the 
Sea  Foam  for  more  than  one  year  both  did  then*  own  laun- 
dry, I  decided  to  follow  their  example. 

Lunch  and  dinner  at  the  Sea  Foam  were  like  breakfast 
— long-drawn-out  meals.  A  waitress  seldom  got  rid  of  her 
guests  under  a  half-hour  after  the  dining-room  closed,  and 
often  it  was  a  full  hour. 

When  on  " early  watch"  a  waitress  had  to  be  hi  the  hotel 
dining-room  not  later  than  six  in  the  morning.  This  is  for 
the  convenience  of  guests  leaving  by  early  tram.  "Late 
watch"  means  remaining  until  midnight  to  serve  guests 
arriving  on  late  trains  or  those  who,  after  a  promenade 
along  the  shore,  felt  the  need  of  an  extra  meal.  Being  on 
watch  does  not  curtail  in  any  particular  the  regular  duties 
of  a  waitress. 

On  one  such  occasion  my  diary  reads:  "April  2,  1917. 
Went  on  watch  at  5.58  A.  M.,  served  four  early  breakfasts 
and  reset  tables.  Return  Belgrave  at  6.46  and  ate  my 
breakfast.  Back  in  dining-room  at  6.57.  Put  water,  ice, 
and  menus  on  my  table.  The  family  of  the  multimillion- 
aire having  left  the  night  before,  the  assistant  head  waiter 
gave  me  three  two-seaters  nearer  the  dining-room  door.  I 
set  up  these  tables  and  served  six  breakfasts.  Returned  to 
Belgrave  at  11.32.  Ironed  two  aprons,  a  white  skirt,  a 


HUMAN  COOTIES  63 

petticoat,  and  two  collar-and-cuff  sets.  Ate  my  lunch  and 
was  back  in  the  dining-room  at  12.57.  Served  seven  lunches 
and  then  held  open  the  dining-room  door  for  fifty-two 
minutes  that  late  guests  might  pass  out.  Rolled  the  car- 
pet, set  up  my  tables  and  returned  to  Belgrave  at  4.15. 
Rested  nearly  a  half-hour,  then  pressed  my  black  waist, 
took  a  bath,  went  to  a  store  on  the  corner  for  some  peanut 
butter  and  crackers.  Ate  dinner  and  returned  to  the  hotel 
dining-room  at  6.07.  Served  eight  dinners  and  went  off 
duty  at  8.56." 

Do  not  forget  that  at  the  Sea  Foam  it  is  not  considered 
good  form  to  employ  bus  boys.  A  waitress  not  only  brings 
hi  all  food  but  she  must  carry  out  all  dishes  and  wash,  polish, 
dry,  and  bring  back  to  the  dining-room  all  china,  glass,  and 
silver  used  on  her  tables. 

My  diary  for  the  following  day,  April  3,  reads :  "Yesterday 
was  a  memorable  day  in  the  history  of  our  country — perhaps 
of  the  world — President  Wilson  asked  Congress  to  declare 
that  a  state  of  war  exists  between  the  United  States  and 
Germany.  Excepting  myself  I  believe  every  waitress  hi 
the  Sea  Foam  has  written  either  to  the  secretary  of  war  or 
direct  to  the  President  offering  her  services.  So  far  as  the 
six  persons  at  my  tables  are  concerned  only  the  little  boy 
from  Wilmington,  Delaware,  has  shown  any  interest  hi 
the  matter.  He  came  hi  a  half-hour  ahead  of  his  mother 
this  morning  and  spent  the  time  talking  to  me  about  our 
preparedness,  etc.  He's  a  dear  little  chap." 

Only  lack  of  money  kept  me  at  Sea  Foam.  Before  the 
end  of  my  second  week  I  had  learned  more  than  enough  to 
understand  why  women  and  girls  prefer  to  eke  out  an 
existence  on  the  meagre  wage  received  in  shops  and  fac- 
tories rather  than  enjoy  the  "home  comforts"  offered  by 
domestic  service.  Only  the  experience  of  Beulah,  a  dear 
little  girl  from  Canada,  prevented  me  from  giving  up  my 
job  and  returning  to  New  York, 


64        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Beulah,  whose  season  in  Bermuda  had  been  cut  short  by 
the  war,  came  to  Sea  Foam  on  a  three  weeks'  contract. 
Through  a  waitress  friend  she  received  an  offer  of  a  perma- 
nent position  in  a  hotel  near  New  York  City.  Though  it 
was  ten  days  before  Easter  and  gave  the  head  waiter  ample 
time  to  fill  her  place,  he  not  only  refused  to  pay  the  wage 
due  her  but  threatened  to  have  her  black-listed  in  hotel 
employment  bureaus.  In  order  to  reach  her  new  position 
Beulah  was  forced  to  borrow  money  to  pay  her  railroad 
fare. 

Not  wishing  to  write  and  borrow  money  of  Alice  to  pay 
my  way  back  to  New  York,  I  determined  to  get  myself  dis- 
charged. How  to  accomplish  this  without  doing  anything 
rude  or  disorderly  became  my  problem.  When,  a  few  days- 
before  Easter,  the  assistant  housekeeper  of  the  Belgrave  con- 
fided to  me  that  the  head  waiter  had  confided  to  her  his  in- 
tention of  giving  me  a  year's  contract,  perhaps  making  me 
a  "captain,"  I  gritted  my  teeth.  Determined  not  to  bor- 
row of  Alice,  I  was  equally  as  determined  not  to  remain  to 
the  end  of  my  contract. 

The  day  before  Easter  I  was  put  on  early  watch  for  the 
second  time.  As  waitresses  are  supposed  to  take  turns  at 
watch  duty,  believing  that  my  opportunity  for  getting  my- 
self discharged  had  come,  I  hurried  to  the  head  waiter. 
He  listened  to  my  complaint  against  his  assistant  and  then 
explained  that  he  had  suggested  my  being  put  on  watch 
because  there  were  so  many  new  waitresses  who  could  not 
be  trusted  to  "swing  the  job." 

"You've  got  a  head  on  your  shoulders,"  he  informed  me. 
"The  management  has  decided  to  keep  you  on  after  Easter. 
That's  the  reason  I'm  pushing  you  forward — to  get  you 
promoted." 

Easter  morning  found  the  head  waiter  and  his  assistant 
so  nervous  that  they  reminded  me  of  ill-conditioned  sheep- 
dogs snapping  and  snarling  at  each  and  every  member  of 


HUMAN  COOTIES  65 

their  flock.  A  few  minutes  after  the  dining-room  door 
opened  for  breakfast,  just  when  the  earliest  guests  began 
to  trickle  in,  the  first  of  a  veritable  avalanche  of  potted 
plants  and  cut  flowers  were  brought  in.  Certain  guests, 
wishing  their  tables  to  be  especially  attractive,  had  ordered 
these  flowers  and  plants  added  to  the  abundant  supply 
already  provided  by  the  hotel. 

So,  after  getting  rid  of  our  breakfast  guests,  in  addition 
to  our  routine  work  we  waitresses  had  to  put  those  plants 
and  flowers  on  the  tables  indicated,  and  make  them  look  as 
presentable  as  possible.  This  was  far  from  an  easy  task, 
for  in  most  cases  the  plants  and  flowers  had  been  chosen 
because  of  their  beauty  and  utterly  regardless  of  the  size 
or  the  shape  of  the  table  to  be  decorated.  It  was  twenty- 
six  minutes  after  twelve  when  I  left  that  dining-room,  and 
several  waitresses  were  still  struggling  with  their  over- 
abundance of  cut  flowers  and  potted  plants. 

Having  changed  my  uniform  and  swallowed  a  few  mor- 
sels in  the  way  of  lunch,  I  was  back  in  the  dining-room  at 
twelve  thirty-seven.  When  the  doors  opened,  the  occu- 
pants of  my  three  tables,  instead  of  being  among  the  early 
diners  as  they  had  all  promised,  were  all  late.  Anna, 
whose  station  was  next  mine,  was  unfortunate  hi  the  oppo- 
site direction — her  guests,  four  at  one  table  and  two  at  the 
other,  all  arrived  at  the  same  time. 

For  the  sake  of  helping  Anna  I  took  the  order  of  the 
guests  at  her  two-seater — a  German-American  and  his 
American  wife,  the  most  perfect  example  of  a  rooster-pecked 
woman  I  have  ever  seen.  On  returning  from  the  kitchen1 
with  the  second  course  for  this  couple,  I  found  all  my  guests 
in  their  seats.  After  serving  the  course  on  my  tray  I  went 
to  the  assistant  head  waiter,  explained  to  him  that  Anna 
needed  assistance,  and  turned  over  to  him  the  order  of  the 
German-American.  Then,  returning  to  my  station,  I  took 
tne  orders  of  my  own  people. 


66        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

At  that  time,  on  a  bench  at  the  back  of  the  dining-room, 
there  were  seated,  waiting  to  be  called  on,  nine  extra  wait- 
resses who  had  been  brought  on  from  a  near-by  city  that 
morning.  When  instructing  the  regular  waitresses  that 
morning  the  head  waiter  had  ordered  us  to  report  to  him- 
self or  his  assistant  when  any  of  us  needed  the  help  of  these 
girls.  Naturally  I  expected  the  assistant  head  waiter  to 
send  one  of  them  to  finish  serving  the  guests  at  Anna's 
two-seater. 

On  returning  with  my  tray  laden  with  the  first  course  for 
my  six  guests  I  found  Anna's  station  in  an  uproar.  The 
German-American,  having  seen  me  take  the  orders  of  my 
regular  guests,  had  complained  so  loudly  that  the  head 
waiter  had  to  be  called  from  the  front  of  the  dining-room  to 
straighten  matters  out.  Catching  sight  of  me  on  my  re- 
turn from  the  kitchen,  the  hyphenated  citizen  again  per- 
sisted in  his  demand  to  have  "that  one  with  hair"  finish 
serving  his  table.  The  head  waiter,  who  was  really  a  very 
good  sort,  firmly  insisted  that  he  must  either  accept  the 
services  of  the  extra  waitress  or  wait  and  take  his  turn  with 
Anna. 

On  my  way  back  to  the  kitchen  the  assistant  head  waiter 
met  me.  He  was  on  the  carpet  and  I  in  the  aisle  next  the 
wall. 

"This  is  the  last  meal  you'll  serve  for  me,"  he  called 
across  the  double  line  of  tables  to  me,  throwing  up  his  arms 
in  a  nervous  way  he  had. 

"I  accept  my  discharge,"  I  replied,  realizing  in  a  flash 
the  opportunity  for  which  I  had  been  looking. 

In  the  serving-room  and  kitchen  I  scattered  the  news 
broadcast,  telling  every  one  with  whom  I  came  in  speaking 
distance  that  the  assistant  head  waiter  had  discharged  me. 
The  steward  assured  me  that  it  was  all  a  mistake.  The 
assistant  head  waiter  was  under  a  great  strain,  he  ex- 
plained, and  very  nervous.  He  tried  to  get  me  to  promise 


HUMAN  COOTIES  67 

not  to  notice  the  incident  and  to  report  as  usual  in  the 
dining-room  for  supper. 

Two  of  my  guests  who  overheard  me  tell  Anna  offered  to 
take  the  matter  up  with  the  manager  of  the  hotel  if  the  head 
waiter  refused  to  keep  me  on.  This  frightened  me  stiff. 
Ten  days  more  at  the  Sea  Foam  was  more  than  I  could  look 
forward  to  with  equanimity.  There  was  genuine  pathos  in 
my  voice  when  I  begged  them  not  to  interfere. 

My  description  of  my  discharge  so  affected  Mary,  my 
roommate,  that  she  insisted  on  taking  me  for  an  outing. 
In  fact,  nothing  but  my  positive  refusal  to  get  into  a  wheel- 
chair prevented  her  from  indulging  in  that  extravagant 
attention.  Truthfully  assuring  her  that  it  would  be  much 
more  enjoyable  to  sit  and  watch  the  crowd,  we  found  com- 
fortable seats  under  a  pavilion  and  there  spent  the  after- 
noon. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  weather,  or  maybe  the  reaction  fol- 
lowing the  emotional  elation  caused  by  the  incident  of  my 
discharge.  Whatever  the  reason,  I  have  never  before  or 
since  experienced  such  a  virulent  attack  of  discouragement 
as  I  did  while  watching  that  moving  throng.  Not  for  my- 
self alone,  but  for  the  human  race.  While  watching  the 
people  passing  in  front  of  us — two  steady  streams  of  walk- 
ers with  two  packed  lines  of  wheel-chairs  between — I  sud- 
denly realized  them  as  an  endless  succession  of  pygmies. 

Not  one  of  them  nor  all  of  them  could  stop  the  incom- 
ing nor  the  outgoing  of  the  sea  that  over  the  beach  had 
the  look  of  dirty  bilge-water  as  creeping  in  higher  and 
higher  it  slapped  the  sand.  Nor  could  one  of  them  nor 
all  of  them  sweep  aside  the  mist  that  like  a  dingy  white 
curtain  cut  off  our  view  of  the  ocean  and  rendered  indis- 
tinct the  end  of  the  boardwalk. 

What  were  they  trying  to  do,  these  pygmies  ?  For  what 
were  they  struggling  ?  Here  they  were  tramping  f  utilely  up 
and  down  the  shore,  working  hard  to  digest  the  food  with 


68        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

which  they  had  just  stuffed  themselves — while  in  the  rear 
of  the  hotels  I  knew  there  were  ten  tunes  as  many  working 
even  harder  to  get  food  to  support  life. 

What  did  it  all  mean — this  endless,  unceasing  struggle 
between  human  cooties  and  human  drudges?  What  did  it 
all  amount  to — the  lives  of  these  pygmies?  Where  had 
they  come  from?  Where  were  they  going?  What  were 
they  trying  to  do? 

Then,  my  thoughts  turning  inward,  I  demanded  of  my- 
self: 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do?  Granting  that  these 
pygmies  crawling  along  the  beaches  are  human  cooties 
and  those  working  in  the  hotels  are  human  drudges,  what 
then?  The  cooties  are  no  more  to  blame  for  our  economic 
system  than  the  drudges.  You've  been  a  human  cooty 
and  you  know  that  you  did  not  give  any  more  thought  to 
the  human  drudges  who  slaved  for  your  comfort  than  these 
people  do  to  you.  Remember  the  time  you  stopped  at  the 
Ardale-Stratton ?  Spent  money  like  water." 

Thus  reminded  of  my  first  visit  to  this  resort,  my  mind 
slipped  back  more  than  ten  years.  I  had  come  down  from 
New  York  City  under  the  chaperonage  of  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  women  in  the  country.  We  planned  to  re- 
main two  weeks.  Before  the  end  of  that  time  she  had 
been  taken  seriously  ill,  and,  though  her  own  relatives  and 
friends  left  her  and  returned  to  their  homes,  I  remained. 
Bored  by  the  monotony  of  hotel  life,  with  the  knowledge  of 
spanding  too  much  money  perpetually  nagging  at  my  con- 
sciousness, I  dreaded  to  leave  the  old  lady  among  strangers 
and  attended  only  by  her  maid.  Our  visit  stretched  from 
two  weeks  to  five  months.  Day  after  day  I  had  loafed 
along  the  beach,  watching  the  water — the  threatening, 
the  greedy,  the  sullen,  the  laughing,  the  beautiful,  the 
peaceful,  the  soothing  sea. 

With  a  throb  of  pride  I  recalled  that  every  Sunday  morr;  - 


HUMAN  COOTIES  69 

ing  during  that  tedious  visit  I  had  tipped  my  waiter  and 
chambermaid  one  dollar  each.  Though  I  recalled  that  the 
service  they  gave  me  was  always  the  best,  I  could  not  re- 
member the  name  of  either.  Were  they  to  meet  me  face 
to  face  I  would  not  be  conscious  of  ever  having  seen  them 
before.  I  had  never  realized  them  as  fellow  human  beings. 
I  had  never  considered  their  convenience.  I  had  never  con- 
sidered their  feelings.  In  extenuation  I  told  myself  that 
it  was  because  I  had  not  understood. 

"  Neither  do  the  persons  with  whom  you  are  now  find- 
ing fault  understand,"  my  conscience  flashed  back  at  me. 
"Yet  you  call  them  human  cooties — criticise  their  lack  of 
purpose.  What  do  you  think  you  will  accomplish,  sitting 
out  here  with  a  kitchen-maid?  You  had  better  take 
your  own  advice  to  heart — get  back  where  you  belong 
and  take  care  of  yourself.  You  never  planned  to  have 
Polly  Preston  become  a  domestic  servant.  Go  back  where 
you  belong." 

Yawning,  I  rose  to  my  feet.  It  seemed  the  sensible  thing 
to  do — to  tell  Mary  that  I  was  going  for  a  walk  and  she 
must  not  wait  for  me.  During  Easter  there  was  certain 
to  be  a  number  of  my  acquaintances  at  the  Ardale-Stratton. 
I  had  only  to  register  or  send  my  visiting-card  to  the  pro- 
prietor to  get  the  best  that  the  hotel  had  to  offer.  Tele- 
graphing for  my  trunks  and  writing  Alice  that  I  had  gotten 
all  the  first-hand  material  needed  for  my  novel  were  simple 
details. 

Before  speaking  to  Mary,  and  while  still  yawning,  my 
eyes  wandered  out  to  sea.  The  wind  had  blown  a  hole  in 
the  mist.  Across  this  opening  in  the  foreground  there  was 
steaming  a  black-gray  dreadnought,  its  three  funnels  belch- 
ing black-gray  smoke.  My  country  was  at  war  and  I  had 
forgotten  it ! 

As  the  battleship  disappeared  behind  the  bank  of  mist 
that  formed  the  westerly  frame  of  the  picture  in  the  far 


70        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

corner,  in  the  background  three  slender  spars  of  a  schooner- 
rigged  sailing-vessel  crept  into  view.  Her  hull  seemed  a 
black  cord  above  the  silvery  sea,  and  her  stretch  of  can- 
vas, low  down,  appeared  hardly  larger  than  my  thumb- 
nail. 

"The  new  and  the  old!"  I  exclaimed,  comparing  the 
majestic  power  of  the  dreadnought  with  the  struggling 
sailing-ship. 

Every  drop  of  blood  in  your  veins  crossed  the  Atlantic 
in  a  vessel  no  larger  and  in  all  human  probabilities  no  more 
seaworthy  than  that  schooner,  my  thoughts  ran  on.  What 
voyages  those  must  have  been !  Storms !  Shipwrecks ! 
What  men  and  what  women ! — French  Huguenot,  English, 
Welsh,  and  Scot. 

Standing  there  under  the  pavilion  with  my  eyes  fastened 
on  the  struggling  ship,  I  fell  to  musing  about  those  ancestors 
of  mine — how  they  had  struggled  against  all  the  forces  of 
nature  to  conquer  a  wilderness  inhabited  by  savages;  how, 
after  conquering  that  wilderness,  they  had  wrenched  their 
new  homes  free  from  the  mother  country.  And  with  a 
start  of  amazement  I  considered  their  reason,  why  they  had 
dared  all,  suffered  all — to  found  a  government  under  which 
every  child  might  be  born  free  and  equal. 

Free  and  equal!  What  did  that  mean?  What  had 
those  wonderful  old  men  and  women  planned? 

I  looked  down  at  Mary.  And  across  my  mind  there 
swept  stories  of  the  man  from  whom  my  Welsh  strain  sprung. 
After  serving  as  governor  of  the  colony  he  had  enlisted  in 
the  Continental  army  as  a  private.  Though  his  son-in- 
law,  one  generation  nearer  me,  had  become  one  of  Wash- 
ington's major-generals — a  private  the  old  Welshman  per- 
sisted in  remaining  to  the  end  of  the  Revolution. 

Hot  blood  crept  up  into  my  face  until  my  cheeks  burned 
and  my  ears  tingled.  Who  was  I,  what  had  I  accomplished, 


HUMAN  COOTIES  71 

that  gave  me  the  right  to  turn  up  my  nose  at  associating 
with  a  kitchen-maid?  I  slipped  back  into  the  seat  beside 
Mary. 

What  had  I  done  ?  What  was  I  doing  to  carry  on  the 
high  resolves  of  this  old  Welshman  and  the  rest  of  my 
hard-fighting,  high-thinking  ancestors?  If  I  could  not  go 
to  the  front  and  fight  to  carry  on  the  ideals  of  the  country 
they  had  founded  I  could  at  least  try  to  bring  about  an 
understanding  of  conditions  at  home — conditions  caused 
by  the  ever-increasing  struggle  between  human  cooties  and 
human  drudges — a  struggle  which  appears  to  me  now  as  I 
write  to  threaten  a  greater  disaster  than  that  of  the  World 
War! 

Turning  to  the  woman  at  my  side,  I  asked: 

"Mary,  didn't  you  say  that  your  cousin  planned  to  give 
up  her  position  as  head  chambermaid  with  a  wealthy  family 
in  Pennsylvania?" 

"She  give  notice  more'n  three  months  ago,"  my  room- 
mate assured  me,  eager  to  get  me  to  talk.  "If  the  house- 
keeper wasn't  so  mortal  hard  to  please  Jennie'd  be  married 
and  livin'  in  her  own  home.  The  man  she's  goin'  to  marry 
owns  his  own  farm  and  lives  real  well."  And  Mary  ram- 
bled off,  giving  a  minute  description  of  her  cousin's  future 
husband  and  home. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  Belgrave  after  helping  Mary 
compose  a  night-letter  to  her  cousin  I  sent  a  telegram  to 
Alice  announcing  that  I  would  return  the  next  day  to  New 
York.  That  evening  on  their  return  from  work  in  the 
Sea  Foam  my  fellow  waitresses  gave  me  a  farewell  enter- 
tainment. 

And  it  was  a  real  entertainment,  for  several  of  the  girls 
had  good  natural  voices  and  an  ear  for  music.  It  will  be 
a  long  time  before  memories  of  "I'd  Give  My  Crown  for 
an  Irish  Stew,"  as  sung  by  laughter-loving  Mollie,  fades 


72        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

from  my  mind.  One  young  waitress  seemed  to  me  as  good 
a  clog-dancer  as  I  had  seen  on  the  stage.  She  had  picked 
up  the  steps  at  a  minstrel  show — one  attendance.  What 
was  still  more  surprising  to  me  was  that  every  one  of  them 
could  do  something  in  the  way  of  playing  the  piano.  Only 
one  of  them  had  ever  taken  lessons. 

Though  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  that  evening  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  in  my  whole  life  I  ever  felt  so  diffidently  self- 
conscious.  The  realization  of  yourself  as  the  only  hypocrite 
among  honest  folk  is  not  pleasant.  These  girls  were  all 
genuinely  sorry  for  me,  for  my  being  discharged.  Each 
one  had  contributed  her  mite  to  pay  for  the  bunch  of 
flowers  presented  to  me  at  the  end  of  the  evening.  I  felt 
like  a  thief. 

The  next  morning  when  I  applied  at  the  hotel  office  for 
the  wage  due  me,  the  paymaster  gave  me  a  receipt  to  sign. 
He  had  computed  the  amount  at  the  rate  of  thirteen  dollars 
a  month. 

"According  to  my  contract  I  was  to  be  paid  at  the  rate 
of  sixteen  dollars  a  month,"  I  reminded  him,  returning  the 
paper  unsigned. 

"You  are  not  working  hi  the  side-hall,"  he  snapped  back 
at  me. 

"I  went  where  I  was  sent,"  I  told  him.  "The  head 
waiter  stationed  me  in  the  dining-room.  Since  the  hotel 
required  me  to  sign  a  contract  I  shall  require  the  hotel  to 
live  up  to  that  contract." 

Being  accustomed  to  handling  uneducated  women  this 
man  fancied  that  all  he  had  to  do  to  intimidate  me  was  to 
talk  loud.  When  he  paused  in  his  shouting  I  repeated  my 
first  statement — the  hotel  must  live  up  to  its  contract  with 
me.  After  a  second  bout  at  loud  talking  the  stenographer 
came  to  his  assistance.  She  assured  me  "as  a  friend"  that 
I  had  best  take  the  amount  offered  me,  as  it  was  all  that  I 


HUMAN  COOTIES  73 

would  get.  Besides  I  had  no  copy  of  the  contract  I  claimed 
to  have  signed. 

She  gasped  on  being  assured  that  I  did  have  a  second 
copy  of  the  contract — the  copy  Mrs.  Wilkins  had  sent  for. 
Taking  another  tack,  this  girl  reminded  me  that  the  differ- 
ence between  sixteen  and  thirteen  was  too  small  to  dispute 
about.  Whereupon  I  inquired  why  the  hotel  was  unwill- 
ing to  pay  it. 

Declaring  that  nothing  could  be  done  until  my  contract 
was  found,  both  the  stenographer  and  the  paymaster  went 
back  to  their  work.  After  waiting  thirty  minutes  by  the 
clock  I  again  asked  for  my  wages.  The  paymaster  in- 
formed me  that  my  contract  had  not  been  found  and  that 
I  would  have  to  wait  till  they  had  time  to  look  for  it.  At 
the  end  of  the  second  thirty  minutes,  and  seeing  that  no 
effort  was  being  made  to  get  the  contract,  I  remarked  that 
perhaps  it  might  be  just  as  well  for  me  to  call  on  the  clerk 
of  the  district  court  while  waiting. 

Simple  as  that  statement  may  seem,  it  had  a  surprising 
effect  on  the  paymaster.  Hurrying  to  the  door  of  his  en- 
closure he  urged  me  to  enter,  sit  down,  and  wait  for  the 
manager.  The  manager,  he  assured  me,  kept  all  contracts 
locked  hi  a  safe  of  which  he  alone  knew  the  combination. 
On  my  persisting  he  followed  me  along  the  passageway, 
begging  me  "as  a  friend"  to  have  a  little  patience.  An- 
other odd  feature  of  the  performance  was  that  the  house- 
keeper of  the  Belgrave,  though  she  had  held  the  position 
for  more  than  ten  years,  could  not  direct  me  to  the  city 
hall, 

Once  on  the  streets  every  passer-by  was  able  to  point  out 
the  city  hall  and  tell  me  in  just  which  corner  I  would  find  the 
clerk  of  court.  This  man  was  or  pretended  to  be  as  igno- 
rant of  Sea  Foam  as  the  housekeeper  had  been  of  his  where- 
abouts. When  I  first  stated  my  case  he  had  some  difficulty 


74        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE   UNDERBRUSH 

in  recalling  that  there  was  such  a  hotel  in  the  place — it 
is  one  of  the  best  known  thereabouts  and  less  than  five 
blocks  from  his  office.  His  negro  man  of  all  work  was  so 
well  informed  that  he  was  able  not  only  to  locate  it  exactly 
but  to  give  the  names  of  the  stockholders. 

The  clerk  of  court,  when  warning  me  against  "invoking 
the  law"  for  such  a  small  sum,  informed  me: 

"The  judge  is  all  right,  of  course,  but  when  it  comes  to 
a  case  against  one  of  our  large  hotels  there's  never  any 
telling  which  way  the  cat  will  jump.  I  strongly  advise 
you  to  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  see  the  manager.  May- 
be they  will  have  found  your  contract  and  will  be  willing 
to  pay  you  at  the  rate  of  sixteen  a  month."  Then  he 
added,  as  he  handed  me  his  card:  "I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
you'd  find  them  with  the  money  all  counted  out  ready  for 
you." 

"Neither  would  I,"  I  answered,  keeping  tight  hold  on 
the  muscles  of  my  face  to  prevent  myself  from  returning 
his  smile. 

And  it  proved  even  as  he  said.  Not  only  was  the  money 
ready  for  me  but  the  paymaster's  manner  had  undergone  a 
complete  change.  Telling  me  that  the  manager  wished  to 
speak  to  me,  he  held  open  the  office-door  and  politely  ushered 
me  in. 

The  manager  of  the  Sea  Foam  is,  or  was  at  that  time,  a 
square-built  man  with  red  hair.  As  we  stared  at  each 
other  across  the  broad  top  of  his  mahogany  office-table  our 
eyes  were  on  a  level.  It  was  quite  evident  that  he  expected 
to  stare  me  out  of  countenance.  He  made  a  mistake.  His 
eyes  were  the  first  to  give  way. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  said,  motioning  to  a  chair. 

"Thank  you.  I  have  neither  the  time  nor  the  in- 
clination," I  told  him.  "What  is  it  you  wish  to  say  to 
me?" 


HUMAN  COOTIES  75 

"To  ask  you  why  you  went  to  the  clerk  of  court." 

"To  prove  to  the  Sea  Foam  waitresses  that  they  can 
force  the  hotel  to  live  up  to  its  contracts." 

Then  I  told  him  of  the  way  little  Beulah  had  been 
treated.  He  listened  as  though  hearing  of  such  an  inci- 
dent for  the  first  tune.  Judging  by  what  I  had  heard,  it 
had  been  the  policy  of  the  hotel  toward  waitresses  for 
years. 

At  lunch,  my  last  meal  at  the  Belgrave,  when  describing 
my  experience  I  distributed  copies  of  the  clerk  of  court's 
business  cards. 

"It  won't  do  any  good  until  we  are  organized,"  one 
of  the  older  girls  said.  "If  a  few  of  us  kick  or  insist 
on  being  paid  sixteen  instead  of  thirteen  we'll  be  dis- 
charged and  blacklisted.  If  we  organize  we  can  force  up 
wages 

"And  cut  out  tips,"  a  younger  girl  interrupted.  "It's  a 
darn  shame  for  the  hotels  to  put  up  their  rates  and  expect 
guests  to  pay  extra  for  service.  It's  a  darn  shame." 

While  this  was  going  on  the  girls  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table  had  been  whispering  together.  Now  the  girl  at  the 
head  of  the  table  held  up  her  hand,  signalling  for  silence. 
Then,  after  a  glance  at  the  adjoining  table  to  make  sure  the 
assistant  housekeeper  was  not  listening,  she  informed  me 
that  she  had  been  delegated  to  ask  me  to  remain  and  or- 
ganize the  waitresses,  beginning  with  those  working  in  the 
larger  hotels. 

The  request  was  so  unexpected  that  for  a  moment  I  was 
dumb.  On  recovering  myself  I  reminded  them  that  our 
country  was  at  war.  So  long  as  the  war  lasted  we  at  home 
must  keep  our  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  If  the  wheel  cut 
into  our  flesh  we  must  endure  it  for  the  sake  of  pushing  the 
load  to  safety. 

"And  after  the  war?"  the  spokesman  asked. 


76        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 


el 


1  After  the  war  organize.  Then,  if  you  prove  your  con- 
sistency by  refusing  to  take  tips,  the  public  will  help  you 
get  a  decent  wage,"  I  replied.  And  I  still  believe  that  I 
spoke  the  truth. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GOOD  HUNTING-GROUND 

ON  my  return  after  this  experience  Mrs.  Wilkins  said 
that  I  had  lost  twenty  pounds,  while  Alice  candidly  assured 
me  that  I  could  not  look  worse  had  I  been  buried  and  dug 
up.  Such  backhanded  compliments  did  not  encourage  me 
to  take  either  of  them  into  my  confidence.  And,  though 
Alice  remarked  on  the  length  of  time  it  had  taken  me  to 
get  to  New  York,  it  did  not  seem  necessary  for  me  to  men- 
tion having  stopped  off  at  a  station  in  Pennsylvania  long 
enough  to  be  interviewed  by  the  housekeeper  of  Sutton 
House.  Neither  did  I  feel  called  on  to  confide  that  the 
housekeeper  had  engaged  me  to  take  the  position  to  be  left 
vacant,  three  weeks  hence,  by  Mary's  cousin. 

Having  returned  to  New  York  six  dollars  poorer  than  I 
quitted  it,  the  necessity  of  paying  in  advance  for  my  room 
and  my  food  left  me  no  time  to  loaf.  Though  experience 
had  taught  me  that  Tuesday  is  the  least  desirable  day  in 
the  week  to  hunt  a  job  I  determined  to  take  my  chances 
in  spite  of  Mrs.  Wilkins  and  Alice  urging  me  to  remain  in 
bed  and  rest.  Both  offered  to  loan  me  money. 

The  most  promising  advertisement  in  the  help-wanted 
columns  that  morning  was  that  of  a  biscuit  factory  on  Long 
Island — women  and  girls  at  seven  dollars  a  week.  The 
advertisement  stated  that  only  one  car-fare  was  needed 
from  Manhattan — such  an  important  detail  that  it  might 
be  called  an  inducement. 

Begrudging  this  sixty  cents  a  week  I  debated  with  my- 
self the  wisdom  of  following  the  advice  of  Alice  and  the 

77 


78       FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

hat-trimmer — waiting  until  later  in  the  week.  My  an- 
tipathy to  borrowing  money  of  my  friends  finally  outweighed 
my  unwillingness  to  pay  car-fare,  and  I  set  out.  Though  I 
reached  the  biscuit  factory  a  half-hour  before  the  doors 
opened,  there  were  seven  women  ahead  of  me.  Fifty-one 
came  later. 

After  Sea  Foam,  I  enjoyed  standing  in  the  open  air  and 
chatting  with  the  women  and  girls.  It  was  a  balmy  spring 
morning,  and  a  sheen  of  soft  green  covered  the  trees  and 
fields.  My  fellow  applicants  were  all  comfortably  dressed 
and  appeared  to  be  cheerful.  There  was  no  pushing  and 
crowding  for  place  near  the  entrance. 

When  finally  the  doors  were  opened  we  filed  hi  smiling 
and  in  order.  The  bare  little  employment  office  was  spot- 
lessly clean,  and  there  were  plenty  of  seats. 

The  method  of  selection  was  unusual.  The  manager 
asked  all  who  had  worked  for  the  factory  to  stand  up;  fifty- 
three  rose.  As  he  took  the  name  of  each  girl  and  woman 
he  asked  why  she  had  left,  and  if  she  preferred  to  return 
to  the  department  in  which  she  had  previously  worked. 
About  half  claimed  to  have  left  because  they  were  needed 
at  home,  many  had  tried  other  work  in  hope  of  bettering 
themselves,  and  one  had  been  discharged. 

Instead  of  asking  this  girl  the  reason  for  her  discharge, 
the  manager  handed  her  paper  and  pencil  and  requested 
her  to  write  it  out  while  he  attended  to  us  other  applicants. 
Not  knowing  how  to  spell  a  word  this  girl,  who  sat  next  me, 
showed  me  what  she  had  written — she  had  been  sent  away 
from  the  factory  because  the  boss  in  the  packing  depart- 
ment said  she  needed  a  bath. 

When  my  turn  came  I  elected  to  be  sent  to  the  packing 
department,  and  for  the  single  reason  that  I  wished  to  see 
and  know  the  boss  who  had  enough  courage  to  send  home  a 
worker  who  had  neglected  to  wash  her  face  and  hands. 
This  boss,  Jane  Ward,  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  ad- 


GOOD  HUNTING-GROUND  79 

mirable  characters  I  have  ever  known  and  one  of  the  most 
capable  of  women.  It  took  her  about  three  minutes  to 
show  me  how  to  pack  crackers — I  began  with  saltines. 

The  packing  department  filled  one  floor  of  the  huge  fac- 
tory. It  was  perfectly  lighted,  heated,  and  ventilated. 
The  women  and  girl  workers  wore  all-enveloping  blue  cot- 
ton aprons  with  becoming  Dutch  caps  to  match.  These 
caps  covered  the  hair  as  completely  as  the  aprons  covered 
our  dresses.  The  men,  both  workers  and  managers,  wore 
coats  and  caps  of  white  cotton.  These  garments  were  all 
supplied  and  laundered  by  the  factory,  fresh  ones  being 
distributed  every  other  day. 

Like  folding  circulars  and  addressing  envelopes,  packing 
crackers  is  monotonous  though  neither  fatiguing  nor  dis- 
agreeable. Indeed,  for  the  first  few  days  I  found  it  uncom- 
monly pleasant — workers  being  allowed  to  eat  all  the  crack- 
ers they  wish  providing  they  take  none  from  the  building. 
Several  times  during  my  first  morning  Jane  Ward,  when 
making  her  rounds,  would  fill  my  apron  pockets  with  vari- 
ous varieties.  And  the  girls  working  at  the  machines 
would  make  it  convenient  to  pass  me  along  a  handful  of 
fresh  ones  from  the  wide  iron  flats  on  which  they  came  hot 
from  the  ovens. 

During  the  first  day  I  ate  ravenously.  By  the  afternoon 
of  the  second  day  it  did  not  require  much  self-denial  to  pass 
a  machine  without  sampling  that  bake.  At  the  end  of  the 
week  I  was  entirely  content  to  allow  Mrs.  Wilkins  and 
Alice  to  consume  the  bag  of  fresh  broken  crackers  which  I 
purchased  at  one-third  the  regular  price  and  took  home 
with  me  every  evening. 

The  happy  faces  of  my  fellow  workers  were  a  continual 
source  of  pleasure  to  me.  In  no  place  where  I  had  worked 
had  I  found  such  unmistakable  evidence  of  general  content- 
ment. In  spite  of  the  fatigue  resulting  from  my  Atlantic 
City  experience,  I  found  myself  even  on  my  first  day  feel- 


80        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

ing  more  and  more  encouraged  as  the  hours  wore  away. 
By  lunch-time  I  had  become  almost  light-hearted. 

But  when  Jane  asked  a  girl  who  worked  at  the  same 
table  with  me  to  take  me  with  her  to  the  lunch-room  con- 
ducted by  the  factory  for  its  employees,  I  drew  back.  My 
memory  of  the  lunch-room  conducted  by  the  department 
store  for  its  employees  was  still  too  vivid.  Never  again 
would  I  be  caught  in  such  a  trap !  I  thanked  Jane,  but 
when  she  had  passed  on  I  told  the  girl  that  it  being  my 
habit  to  take  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air  during  the  lunch-hour, 
I  would  look  for  an  eating-place  on  the  street. 

"I've  never  been  able  to  stomach  the  food  in  these  joints 
around  here,"  the  girl  replied.  "And  their  prices  is  some- 
thing fierce." 

On  my  inquiring  if  the  food  she  got  in  the  factory  lunch- 
room was  really  eatable  she  very  wisely  advised  me  to  come 
and  see  before  putting  on  my  hat  and  coat.  Stepping  in- 
side the  door  of  the  restaurant  I  stared  in  amazement  at 
the  food,  the  helpings,  and  the  service. 

It  was  a  cafeteria  with  the  serving-counter  shaped  like 
an  elongated  horseshoe.  A  squad  of  men,  all  in  spotless 
white,  stood  within  the  hollow  of  the  horseshoe  serving  the 
workers  as  they  passed  along,  the  women  on  one  arm  of 
the  shoe,  the  men  on  the  other.  On  paying  their  score  the 
men  turned  into  the  men's  dining-room,  and  the  women 
into  that  reserved  for  women  workers. 

That,  my  first  lunch,  as  recorded  in  my  diary,  consisted 
of  two  slices  of  roast  beef,  each  as  large  as  my  hand  and 
almost  as  thick,  on  a  mound  of  mashed  potatoes  with 
a-plenty  of  brown  gravy;  one-eighth  of  a  large  apple  pie; 
bread  and  butter,  a  cup  of  coffee  with  grade  A  milk  and  all 
the  sugar  I  wanted — all  for  eighteen  cents.  Everything 
was  deliciously  cooked  and  carefully  served.  After  the 
atrociously  cooked  and  slovenly  served  meals  of  the  Bel- 
grave  this  factory  lunch-room  seemed  to  me  nothing  short 
of  marvellous. 


GOOD  HUNTING-GROUND  81 

That  night  I  recounted  my  experience  to  Alice,  the  hat- 
trimmer,  and  the  little  organist.  They  all  threatened  to 
give  up  their  jobs  and  go  to  packing  crackers.  Every 
evening  after  that  they  never  failed  to  ask: 

"Well,  what  did  you  have  for  lunch  to-day?" 

The  portions  were  so  surprisingly  generous  that  I  often 
found  it  difficult  to  eat  it  all.  It  may  have  been  that  our 
stern  course  of  appetite  suppression  had  affected  me.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  there  were  several  days  when  only  shame 
prevented  me  from  asking  permission  to  take  home  with 
me  the  slice  of  meat  I  had  not  been  able  to  eat.  Mrs.  Wil- 
kins  and  Alice  would  have  been  glad  to  get  it. 

At  that  tune  meats  of  all  sorts  were  so  high  that  none 
of  us  women  on  the  top  floor  thought  of  having  it  oftener 
than  once  a  day.  Potatoes  were  so  expensive  that  Mrs. 
Wilkins  and  the  organist  had  stopped  buying  them — Alice 
and  I  were  rice-eaters.  Milk  had  gone  up  a  cent  a  pint, 
and  the  loaf  of  bread  for  which  we  were  then  paying  eight 
cents  was  decreasing  hi  size  so  rapidly  that  each  time  we 
bought  one  we  wondered  if  we  would  not  be  forced  to  use 
a  magnifying-glass  to  be  able  to  see  our  next. 

Ah  me !  The  time  came  all  too  soon  when  I  had  to  leave 
this  job  of  good  food  and  cheerful  surroundings — a  whole 
week  before  the  date  set  for  me  to  take  the  position  left 
vacant  by  the  marriage  of  Mary's  cousin.  And  I  bitterly 
resented  the  circumstances  that  caused  me  to  leave  though 
it  was  the  offer  of  a  promotion. 

"We  never  promote  a  girl  until  she  has  been  here  two 
weeks,"  Jane  Ward  said  to  me  late  hi  the  afternoon  of  my 
second  Friday.  "Your  second  week  won't  be  up  until 
next  Tuesday,  but  you  have  done  so  well  that  the  manager 
says  I  may  put  you  in  charge  of  that  machine."  She  in- 
dicated a  machine  which  at  the  tune  she  spoke  was  bring- 
ing down  hot  gingersnaps  from  the  oven  on  the  floor  above. 
Then  she  added:  "It  means  a  dollar  a  week  raise  for  you, 
and  it  is  a  sit-down  job." 


82        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

For  two  whole  days  I  debated  with  myself  the  question 
—to  accept  the  promotion  or  not  to  accept.  Those  boun- 
tiful well-cooked  lunches  were  a  real  temptation.  Alice  and 
Mrs.  Wilkins  had  remarked  more  than  once  on  the  change 
in  my  appearance.  The  scales  proved  that  I  had  regained 
seven  of  the  fifteen  pounds  lost  while  in  Atlantic  City.  If 
Jane  had  not  been  so  eager  to  reward  me!  Or  if  only  I 
hadn't  been  so  eager  to  make  good. 

Late  Sunday  afternoon  I  posted  a  letter  telling  Jane  that 
it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  return  to  work  the  follow- 
ing day  as  I  was  needed  at  home.  Though  untrue,  that 
excuse  represented  the  awakening  of  my  sense  of  personal 
responsibility. 

For  had  I  accepted  that  promotion  I  would  have  taken 
the  place  of  some  woman  who  really  needed  the  dollar  a 
week  raise.  Besides,  I  would  have  given  Jane  the  trouble 
of  training  me.  No  such  qualms  of  conscience  had  troubled 
me  when  the  manager  of  the  premium  station  offered  me 
permanent  employment,  though  I  was  perfectly  aware  that 
fifty-six  other  women  had  been  hoping  and  working  for  the 
position. 

Before  turning  away  from  the  biscuit  factory  I  wish  to 
state  that  even  to-day,  after  my  experience  in  so  many 
different  lines  of  work,  I  have  but  one  criticism  to  make: 
There  is  no  reason  why  women  should  be  forced  to  stand 
while  packing  crackers. 

This  may  seem  a  small  matter,  but  to  the  woman  worker 
it  is  most  serious.  In  all  my  experience  I  have  never  found 
any  work  so  fatiguing  as  standing  on  my  feet  continuously 
for  several  hours  at  a  tune.  The  fact  that  the  feet  are  in- 
cased in  pointed-toed  shoes  with  high  heels  does  not  lessen 
the  strain. 

Women  should  have  better  sense  than  to  wear  such  shoes 
to  work.  Indeed?  Let  any  one  making  such  a  protest 
try  to  buy,  hi  New  York,  a  pair  of  shoes  with  round  toes 


GOOD  HUNTING-GROUND  83 

and  moderately  low  heels  when  the  other  style  is  in  fashion. 
I  have  tried,  and  though  I  succeeded,  it  was  after  much 
searching  and  always  at  an  additional  cost  of  several  dollars. 
Besides,  because  a  woman  works  for  her  living  does  not 
make  her  any  less  a  woman;  and  every  woman,  unless  she 
is  a  fool,  wishes  to  appear  well  dressed — in  the  fashion. 

Though  I  was  up  and  out  before  eight  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  I  returned  to  my  room  late  in  the  afternoon  with- 
out having  secured  a  position.  It  was  not  for  the  lack  of 
trying.  I  called  at  nine  places  advertising  for  workers. 
At  the  first  place  there  were  twenty-two  applicants  for  two 
vacancies.  At  another  there  were  forty  women  waiting 
when  I  arrived,  and  several  came  later — only  six  vacancies. 
Before  the  door  of  a  down-town  candy  factory  I  was  one  of 
more  than  fifty  women  and  girls.  Many  of  them  had  been 
waiting  since  eight  o'clock.  At  twelve  a  man  came  out 
and  roughly  ordered  us  all  off.  When  some  of  us  protested 
he  burst  out  laughing  and  informed  us  that  all  vacancies 
had  been  filled  before  eight-thirty. 

The  next  day  I  was  more  fortunate — that  is,  I  was  taken 
on  at  the  first  place  to  which  I  applied.  This  was  a  candy 
factory.  After  packing  fancy  chocolates  during  the  morn- 
ing I  was  sent  to  another  department  and  assigned  to  the 
task  of  helping  a  chocolate-dipper.  This  position,  so  my 
fellow  packers  informed  me,  was  very  desirable  since  the 
next  step  up  is  chocolate-dipping,  a  work  that  always 
commands  a  good  wage. 

"It's  grand!"  one  little  girl,  who  looked  as  though  she 
had  not  washed  her  face  or  combed  her  hah-  for  a  week, 
assured  me.  "  You'll  learn  how  to  dip.  They  make  big 
money,  dippers  do.  I've  gotter  cousin  who  married  a 
dipper.  She  used  to  make  as  much  as  eighteen  a  week. 
She  has  the  swellest  clothes ! " 

During  my  first  day  in  this  candy  factory  I  imagined  that 
the  unneat  appearance  of  my  fellow  workers  was  caused  by 


84        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

dirt  accumulated  since  their  arrival  that  morning.  The 
next  day  taught  me  better.  There  were  precious  few  of 
them,  either  men  or  women,  who  had  the  appearance  of 
having  washed  their  faces  before  leaving  home. 

The  apron  handed  me  on  my  second  day  was  so  soiled 
that  I  asked  the  woman  in  charge  how  often  she  had  them 
washed. 

"Wash  these  things,"  she  cried,  laughing,  as  she  held  up 
another  apron  in  a  worse  condition  than  the  one  she  had 
given  me,  "they  ain't  never  washed  sence  I  been  here. 
When  they  gets  so  sticky  and  stuck  up  that  they  spoil  your 
clothes  they  take  'em  away  and  give  me  some  more.  I 
guess  they  burn  'em.  They  ain't  fitten  for  nothing  else." 

"If  customers  knew  that,  perhaps  they  wouldn't  pay 
such  high  prices  for  your  candies,"  I  suggested. 

"What  folks  don't  know  don't  hurt  'em  none,"  she  re- 
torted. 

That  night  I  had  a  severe  bilious  attack,  and  when  morn- 
ing came  I  was  too  sick  to  think  of  going  to  work.  Had  it 
been  the  biscuit  factory  or  any  other  position  in  which  I 
had  worked,  excepting  the  department  store,  I  would  have 
gotten  Alice  to  telephone  and  give  my  reason  for  not 
reporting. 

Two  days  in  that  candy  factory  were  enough  for  me. 
Even  the  money  due  me — at  the  rate  of  eight  dollars  a 
week — was  not  sufficient  to  draw  me  back.  Now  when  I 
see  the  name  of  that  firm  on  a  candy-box  I  very  gladly 
allow  other  people  to  consume  it.  Yet  I  am  fond  of  candy. 

Fortunately,  on  Friday  morning  the  postman  brought  me 
a  letter  from  the  housekeeper  at  Sutton  House  enclosing  a 
railroad  ticket.  When  I  told  Alice  that  I  had  engaged  to 
go  as  head  chambermaid  she  rose  in  wrath.  A  domestic 
servant  in  a  hotel  was  bad  enough,  she  protested,  but  going 
in  a  private  family  was  a  disgrace  for  which  she  could  not 
find  a  name. 


GOOD  HUNTING-GROUND  85 

"Yet  when  you  are  at  home  you  make  beds,  sweep  the 
floors,  and  do  other  so-called  menial  work,"  I  reminded  her. 

"I'm  a  college  woman,"  she  haughtily  informed  me. 

"If  a  lack  of  education  in  the  worker  renders  the  work 
disgraceful,"  I  replied,  trying  to  argue  with  her,  "then 
surely  my  degree  together  with  my  attainments  as  a  writer 
should  remove  the  stigma." 

But  she  would  not  argue.  It  was  disgraceful  of  me  to 
go  as  a  domestic  servant.  Nobody  would  ever  have  any 
respect  for  me,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  It  was  the 
one  subject  to  which  there  was  but  one  side.  Domestic 
service  was  disgraceful. 

This  in  the  country  that  my  ancestors  had  struggled  to 
found — that  all  under  its  flag  might  be  free  and  equal. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES 

THE  family  at  Button  House  comprised  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sutton,  both  under  thirty-five,  their  only  child  a  boy  eight 
years  old,  and  his  tutor,  a  young  college  man. 

The  place  was  very  beautiful.  The  house,  Southern 
colonial,  was  large  and  dignified  without  being  showy.  The 
park  and  gardens  surrounding  it  contained  eleven  acres — 
at  least  the  chauffeur,  who  brought  me  from  the  station, 
so  inf ormed  me.  Certainly  they  were  ample  and  perfectly 
kept.  The  trees  were  noticeably  handsome,  all  of  them 
indigenous.  Though  an  unusually  elaborate  establishment 
for  America,  it  was  not  an  imitation.  Perhaps  its  most 
striking  feature  was  that  it  did  not  suggest  England  or  any 
other  foreign  country.  It  looked  to  be  just  what  it  was— 
the  country  home  of  a  well-bred  American  family  of  large 
fortune. 

The  American  atmosphere  was  so  distinct  that — watch- 
ing the  house  as  we  approached  along  the  wide  drive,  I  had 
a  subconscious  expectation  of  seeing  an  old  negro,  immac- 
ulately dressed,  make  his  appearance.  He  didn't  come. 
Nor  when  we  passed  near  the  stables  and  garage  was  there 
any  sound  of  laughing  or  singing.  At  the  side  entrance  I 
was  met  by  the  housekeeper,  an  Englishwoman. 

There  were  fifteen  servants  besides  the  men  in  the  stables, 
in  the  garage,  and  the  gardeners.  Every  one  of  them 
foreigners. 

"Why  will  Americans  persist  in  surrounding  themselves 
with  indifferent  foreign  'help'  when  they  might  have  the 
best  servants  and  most  loyal  Americans,  for  the  asking?" 

86 


FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES  87 

was  the  question  that  I  asked  myself  that  night  after  my 
arrival  at  the  Sutton  House,  and  I  am  still  asking  it. 

I  have  known  many  foreign  servants.  Even  the  best  of 
them  was  not  so  good  as  a  competent  negro  would  have 
been  in  the  same  place.  I  am  a  Southerner  born  and  bred 
among  negroes.  Besides,  I  am  descended  from  a  long  line 
of  slave-owning  ancestors.  I  do  not  believe  that  Abraham 
Lincoln  himself  was  a  more  loyal  American  than  the  present- 
day  descendants  of  the  people  he  fought  to  free. 

Yet  hi  spite  of  their  excellent  qualities,  their  loyalty,  we 
turn  them  down.  Just  let  an  American  family  get  a  little 
money,  and  the  first  thing  they  do  in  the  way  of  display  is 
to  secure  as  many  "help"  as  their  pocketbook  will  permit. 

Being  foreigners,  all  the  servants  at  Sutton  House  were, 
of  course,  "help."  Even  the  French  maid  spoke  of  herself 
as  "Madame's  porsonal  help,"  and  even  the  fact  that  she 
received  sixty  dollars  a  month  in  wages,  her  laundry,  a 
room  to  herself,  and  all  the  clothes  that  her  mistress  did 
not  care  to  wear  the  second  time  did  not  prevent  her  from 
disloyalty.  A  negro  girl  would  have  given  better  service 
than  this  woman  and  never  have  permitted  her  mistress  to 
be  criticised  in  her  presence. 

Cinder  my  direction  there  were  five  chambermaids,  a 
scrubwoman,  and  a  man  for  cleaning.  The  man  was  a 
Swede  and  the  maids  all  Irish.  My  wages  were  forty  dol- 
lars a  month  with  laundry  and  a  room  to  myself.  Be- 
cause I  chanced  to  take  the  fancy  of  the  housekeeper  I 
took  all  my  meals  with  her  instead  of  with  the  other  ser- 
vants. Had  it  been  otherwise  I  would  have  heard  more 
back-stairs  gossip  than  I  did. 

Certainly  I  heard  enough  to  make  me  know  that,  except- 
ing the  housekeeper,  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Sutton  had  a 
friend  among  their  "help."  Unlike  the  horde  of  foreigners 
who  have  usurped  their  rightful  places,  negro  servants 
are  loyal  to  their  employers.  A  negro,  as  a  rule,  has  too 


88        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

much  self-esteem  to  belittle  the  person  from  whom  he  takes 
wages. 

Sutton  House  was  crowded  with  guests  every  week-end, 
but  from  Monday  noon  to  Friday  afternoon  Mrs.  Sutton 
was  generally  alone  with  her  little  son  and  his  tutor.  Mr. 
Sutton  usually  returned  to  the  city  with  the  first  of  his 
guests  to  leave  Monday  morning,  and  seldom  made  his 
appearance  before  Saturday  afternoon.  He  stood  well  in 
his  profession,  was  a  hard  worker,  and  might  have  been 
devoted  to  his  home  had  the  distance  between  his  office 
and  Sutton  House  admitted  of  his  spending  his  nights  there. 

Mrs.  Sutton,  so  I  learned  from  the  housekeeper,  was  an 
only  child  of  wealthy  parents — the  darling  of  her  old  father, 
who  had  insisted  on  humoring  every  whim.  It  being  her 
whim  to  come  to  Sutton  House  before  her  husband's  busi- 
ness permitted  him  to  leave  town,  the  family  had  moved 
out. 

Compared  with  the  department  store,  the  premium  sta- 
tion, and  the  Sea  Foam  Hotel  this  position  was  a  holiday 
among  perfect  surroundings.  It  is  true  that  week-ends 
every  servant  had  as  much  as  he  or  she  could  properly  do. 
The  rest  of  the  time  the  chambermaids  finished  their  work 
before  ten  o'clock.  After  that  I  arranged  for  them  to  go 
off,  leaving  two  on  watch  until  lunch-time.  At  lunch  the 
watch  changed,  and  again  at  seven,  their  dinner-hour. 
This  last  watch  remained  on  until  ten,  which  was  supposed 
to  be  the  family  bedtime.  All  that  was  required  of  them 
was  to  sit,  one  on  each  bedroom  floor,  and  be  ready  to  re- 
spond promptly  when  called.  While  on  watch  I  encour- 
aged, or  at  least  I  tried  to  encourage,  these  girls  to  read, 
to  sew,  or  do  any  quiet  handiwork. 

So  far  as  I  saw,  it  was  effort  thrown  away.  Not  one  of 
the  five  ever  darned  her  stockings — of  course  they  all  wore 
silk  stockings,  also  silk  underwear.  Indeed,  I  believe  three 
out  of  the  five  boasted  that  she  never  wore  anything  be- 


FEMALES  OF' THE  SPECIES  89 

sides  silk  except  when  she  was  on  duty.  Instead  of  employ- 
ing her  mind  or  her  fingers,  one  and  all  of  the  five  would 
sit  gazing  out  the  nearest  window  and  resort  to  all  sorts  of 
tricks  to  go  to  the  servants'  quarters.  Judging  by  these 
women,  and  the  thousands  of  other  men  and  women  of  the 
same  race,  I  am  convinced  that  what  we  are  pleased  to  call 
"wonderful  Irish  imagination"  is  the  result  of  idleness — 
air-castle  building.  They  are  the  most  gorgeous  of  liars. 

Each  and  every  one  of  the  maids  at  Sutton  House  claimed 
to  be  direct  descendants  of  an  Irish  king.  One  of  them 
assured  me  that  if  she  had  her  " rights"  she  would  be  living 
in  a  palace  and  never  have  to  "turn  her  hand" — the  Prin- 
cess Royal  of  Ireland.  Each  one  of  them  had  so  many 
saints  in  her  family  that  I  used  to  wonder  how  she  kept 
track  of  them  all.  Needless  to  say,  they  were  inveterate 
churchgoers.  Such  weird  ideas  as  they  attributed  to  their 
priest ! 

"Father  Hallahan  said  we  were  not  to  abuse  the  Ger- 
mans," one  of  them  told  the  Italian  scrubwoman.  "The 
Germans  are  good  friends  to  the  Irish." 

This  failing  to  impress  the  scrubwoman,  the  Princess 
Royal  gave  additional  information. 

"Yes,  and  the  order  came  straight  from  Rome,"  said  she, 
with  a  defiant  toss  of  her  nappy-looking  head. 

This  so  aroused  the  little  Italian  woman  that  she  damned 
the  Germans  and  she  damned  the  Irish,  but  most  of  all  she 
damned  Rome.  I  have  never  seen  a  more  furious  human 
being.  How  she  rolled  out  Italian  swear  words !  Her  hus- 
band was  in  the  Italian  army  and  she  was  struggling  to 
keep  their  little  home  together  and  their  children  at  school. 
Her  father,  her  brother,  and  two  of  her  husband's  brothers 
had  been  killed  in  the  war. 

She  came  to  me  with  tears  streaming  over  her  face. 
When  she  had  turned  over  her  mop  and  pail  to  me  she  fell 
on  her  knees,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  apron,  knelt 


90        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

beside  the  bathtub,  rocking  her  body  back  and  forth  and 
sobbing.  The  Princess  Royal  and  her  sister  German  sym- 
pathizer took  the  next  train  to  Philadelphia.  They  were 
replaced  by  two  Swedes,  quiet,  hard-working  girls. 

The  middle  of  my  second  week  the  housekeeper  told  me 
that  Mrs.  Sutton  wished  me  to  go  out  with  her  that  evening 
after  dinner.  Heretofore  the  housekeeper  had  accompanied 
her  on  these  evening  automobile  trips.  Now  the  old  woman 
complained  of  feeling  unwell  and  I  was  to  take  her  place. 
The  car  that  evening  was  a  fast  roadster  with  three  seats. 
I  sat  on  the  back  seat.  After  a  run  of  about  an  hour  we 
stopped  at  a  country  inn.  Mrs.  Sutton  told  me  that  I 
might  either  come  in  or  remain  in  the  car. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  during  the  last  of  May.  Sure 
that  our  stop  would  be  only  for  a  few  minutes,  I  decided 
to  remain  in  the  car;  Mrs.  Sutton  followed  by  the  chauffeur, 
a  young  Italian  with  good  legs,  entered  the  inn.  After 
waiting  in  the  car  for  more  than  a  half-hour,  and  feeling 
cramped  from  sitting  so  long,  I  got  out  and  strolled  around 
the  grounds.  Finally,  prompted  by  a  desire  to  kill  tune,  I 
stepped  up  on  the  piazza  and  looked  in  through  a  window. 

Mrs.  Sutton  and  the  chauffeur  were  having  supper  to- 
gether. By  a  casual  observer  they  might  easily  have  been 
mistaken  for  lovers.  After  their  meal  they  joined  the 
dancers.  More  than  an  hour  later  they  returned  to  the 
car  in  which  I  had  resumed  my  seat  about  fifteen  minutes 
earlier.  It  was  well  past  two  o'clock  when  we  finally  re- 
turned to  Sutton  House. 

The  next  morning  I  got  up  soon  after  sunrise  and  sat 
at  the  window  of  my  room.  There  had  been  a  warm  shower 
during  the  earlier  hours,  and  the  gardens  and  grove  looked 
like  Paradise — the  perfectly  kept  lawns,  the  flowers  just 
beginning  to  give  a  touch  of  color  here  and  there,  the  great 
trees  with  their  young  leaves  softly  green  and  glistening. 
And  over  all  a  clear  blue  sky,  through  which  floated  banks 


FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES  91 

of  wonderful  white  clouds  that  looked  as  though  they 
might  have  been  freshly  washed  by  the  angels.  Young 
summer,  like  a  spirit,  walked. 

With  all  this  peace  and  beauty  around  me  I  sat  and 
dreamed.  At  first  it  was  not  a  pleasant  dream  though  it 
concerned  a  new  combination — a  discovery  that,  as  a  rule, 
thrills  a  writer.  In  my  dream  I  questioned  if  in  place  of 
time-worn  love-affairs  between  masters  and  serving-maids, 
we  writers  of  realism  would  have  to  depict  mistresses  court- 
ing straight-legged  chauffeurs.  The  idea  was  too  repul- 
sive. In  spite  of  the  scene  witnessed  the  night  before,  the 
tears  of  the  doll-baby  young  woman  at  the  publishing  house 
and  other  whispered  hints,  I  refused  to  believe  it.  Even 
though  such  a  diseased  condition  was  creeping  in  I  was  sure 
it  would  be  wiped  out  by  the  World  War  before  it  had  time 
to  take  root. 

The  thought  of  the  war  caused  my  dreams  to  change. 
I  had  my  first  vision  of  America,  perhaps  the  world,  as  it 
would  be  after  the  terrible  conflict  in  which  my  country 
had  just  entered.  After  it — for  surely  good  must  come  of 
so  great  a  disaster — there  would  be  no  idle,  untrained 
women  to  menace  human  progress.  In  America  we  would 
have  neither  human  cooties  nor  human  drudges;  all  such 
inhuman  creatures  wiped  out  by  the  war,  we  would  become 
a  nation  of  workers,  struggling  to  carry  out  the  ideals  of 
the  founders  of  our  country. 

During  breakfast  I  notified  the  housekeeper  that  I  must 
leave  at  the  end  of  the  week.  She  remonstrated  vigorously. 
When  her  offer  to  increase  my  wages  failed  to  move  me  she 
confided  to  me  her  plan  for  my  promotion.  She,  it  appeared, 
had  been  the  nursery-governess  of  Mrs.  Sutton,  had  re- 
mained in  the  family,  and  when  her  former  pupil  married 
had  taken  charge  of  her  new  home  as  housekeeper.  Now, 
the  old  woman  continued,  having  saved  enough  to  keep 
her  comfortable,  she  wished  to  spend  her  last  days  among 


92        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

her  own  people  in  England.  I  was  to  take  her  position  as 
housekeeper. 

Even  that  did  not  cause  me  to  change  my  mind.  I  told 
her  that  I  must  go  and  not  later  than  the  end  of  that  week. 
Along  toward  the  middle  of  the  morning  Mrs.  Button's 
French  maid  came  to  me.  Madame  wished  to  see  me  in 
her  bedroom  at  once.  On  entering  Mrs.  Sutton's  room, 
a  fable  told  me  by  Booger  when  I  was  a  very  small  child 
flashed  into  my  mind. 

Booger  was  a  young  negro  who  served  my  father's  family 
in  the  double  capacity  of  stable-boy  and  my  nurse.  Born 
during  that  period  when  the  fortunes  of  the  people  of  the 
Southern  States  were  at  lowest  ebb,  resulting  from  our  Civil 
War,  I  did  not  share  the  advantage  of  being  nursed  by  the 
" Mammy"  adored  by  my  older  sisters  and  brothers.  So 
far  as  I  know,  my  father's  stable-boy  was  my  only  nurse. 
And  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn,  nobody  knows  why 
I  bestowed  on  him  the  name  of  Booger.  To  the  rest  of  the 
world  he  was  Peter. 

"The  Lord  God  done  made  Miss  Rose  white,"  according 
to  Booger.  "But  yerly  one  mornin'  whilst  Marse  Adam 
was  a-walkin'  in  the  Gyarden  of  Eden  he  done  kotch  Miss 
Rose  when  she  was  a-turnin'  back  her  clothes  an'  washin' 
of  her  face.  Miss  Rose  was  so  'shamed  that  she  turned 
red.  She's  been  red  ever  sence." 

Mrs.  Sutton,  lying  among  her  pillows,  with  the  morn- 
ing's mail  scattered  over  the  silken  coverlet  of  her  bed,  re- 
minded me  of  a  half-opened  white  rose  caught  at  her  toilet 
and  blushing  a  shell-pink.  She  was  more  beautiful  than 
any  flower  in  her  garden.  Her  wide  blue  eyes  were  the  color 
of  the  sky  into  which  I  had  gazed  at  sunrise,  and  as  fathom- 
less. Who  can  fathom  the  soul  of  a  flippant  woman? 

When  I  refused  her  offer  to  raise  my  wages  she  told  me 
of  the  housekeeper's  plan  for  my  promotion.  When  that 
failed  she  acted  like  a  spoiled  child.  She  wished  to  know 


FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES  93 

my  reason  for  leaving,  she  insisted  on  knowing,  she  must 
know. 

Looking  at  her — she  seemed  hardly  more  than  a  girl — I 
wondered  if  it  might  not  be  a  kindness  to  give  her  the  reason 
for  my  sudden  departure.  Though  of  course  I  had  never 
intended  to  remain  long  enough  to  inherit  the  housekeeper's 
position,  I  had  expected  to  stay  three  weeks,  perhaps  four, 
and  give  one  week's  notice  before  leaving.  Now  I  deter- 
mined to  tell  her  my  reason  for  changing  my  plans — a  reason 
within  itself  sufficient  to  cause  any  conscientious  servant  to 
quit  her  employ. 

I  crossed  to  the  foot  of  her  bed  and  she  smiled  up  at  me. 

"You  really  wish  to  know  my  reason?"  I  asked,  speak- 
ing seriously.  She  nodded,  and,  smiling,  showed  a  flash 
of  her  perfect  teeth.  "It  is  because  I  don't  care  to  appear 
as  a  witness  in  a  divorce  case  in  which  the  co-respondent 
is  your  husband's  hired  servant,  your  chauffeur." 

She  stared  at  me  dumfounded.  When  she  understood 
her  face  flamed  crimson.  Then  she  sprang  up  in  bed  and 
reached  out  to  ring  for  her  maid. 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  I  told  her,  and  I  stepped  be- 
tween the  head  of  her  bed  and  the  electric  buttons.  "You 
may  call  your  housekeeper  but  not  that  Frenchwoman." 

"How  dare  you  !"  she  cried,  and  her  manner  was  so  com- 
monly melodramatic  that  I  almost  smiled. 

"I  know  the  servants  in  your  house  better  than  you  know 
them  yourself,"  I  told  her,  still  holding  my  position.  "And 
I  shall  do  my  best  to  protect  you  from  yourself." 

"Protect  me  !"  she  sneered.  "You,  my  husband's  detec- 
tive !  Yes,  that's  who  you  are.  My  husband  got  you  out 
here  to  watch  me.  You — you  sneak !" 

I  let  her  talk  until  she  wore  herself  out.  When  she  again 
tried  to  ring  for  her  maid  I  rang  for  the  housekeeper. 

The  housekeeper  came.  Honest  old  soul !  On  these 
evening  trips  when  she  acted  as  chaperon  they  had  gone 


94        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

in  a  touring-car.  When  they  stopped  at  a  road-house  she 
had  always  remained  comfortably  dozing  in  the  tonneau. 

"I  shall  take  you  straight  to  your  mother,  Mildred,"  the 
housekeeper  informed  Mrs.  Sutton,  when  I  had  explained 
the  situation.  And  I  realized  that  she  had  gone  back  twenty 
years,  and  was  again  the  governess  threatening  her  spoiled 
charge.  "Your  mother  will  know  what  to  do  with  you." 

Feeling  hi  honor  bound  to  clear  Mr.  Sutton  of  the  sus- 
picion of  employing  a  detective  I  reminded  his  wife  in  the 
housekeeper's  presence  that  no  person  who  had  entered 
her  home  in  such  a  capacity  would  have  given  so  candid  a 
reason  for  leaving.  The  old  woman  swept  the  suspicion 
aside  with  a  wave  of  her  hand.  Mr.  Sutton  was  a  gentle- 
man, she  assured  me.  There  should  be  no  scandal,  for  Mil- 
dred's mother  knew  how  to  manage  her  daughter. 

While  I  was  packing  my  few  belongings  the  housekeeper 
came  to  my  room.  She  would  always  be  grateful  to  me, 
she  said,  for  ringing  for  her  and  not  allowing  Mildred  to 
call  the  "  French  fool."  Then  she  offered  to  give  me  a  letter 
of  recommendation  and  I  accepted  it.  When  paying  the 
wages  due  me  she  included  my  railroad  ticket  back  to 
New  York  City.  Not  once  did  she  ask  me  to  hold  my 
tongue. 

On  returning  to  New  York  I  learned  that  Mrs.  Tompkins 
had  ordered  Alice  home;  the  hat- trimming  season  being 
over,  Mrs.  Wilkins  was  preparing  to  resume  her  duties  in 
the  linen-room  of  the  Coney  Island  hotel;  and  the  little 
organist  had  already  gone  to  Maine  to  spend  the  summer 
with  her  mother  and  sisters.  The  restaurant-keeper,  hav- 
ing been  mysteriously  robbed  of  all  his  trousers  excepting 
the  pah*  he  was  wearing,  declared  to  me  his  intention  to 
"get  out."  The  reporter  was  shortly  to  take  up  his  suit- 
case and  walk,  and  the  gentleman  of  many  shoes  and  walk- 
ing-sticks greeted  me  with  the  information  that  he  had  pur- 
chased a  water-front  estate  on  the  Sound. 


FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES  95 

It  would  seem  that  I  should  have  been  eagerly  preparing 
to  write  the  story  of  Polly  Preston.  Certainly  I  would  never 
be  able  to  incorporate  in  one  novel  all  the  material  I  had 
already  accumulated.  Yet  I  never  was  farther  from  wish- 
ing to  begin  a  book.  It  may  have  been  the  general  unrest 
caused  by  the  war.  Even  now  I  can  give  no  explanation 
for  my  mental  condition  at  that  time.  So,  instead  of  re- 
turning to  my  own  field,  I  set  out  the  following  morning 
to  get  a  new  job. 

Having  secured  all  previous  positions  through  the  help- 
wanted  columns  of  the  newspapers,  I  now  determined  to 
try  employment  agencies.  My  plan  was  to  register  at  an 
agency  making  a  specialty  of  supplying  domestic  servants, 
pay  the  required  fee,  and  leave  my  three  letters  of  recom- 
mendation. These  three  letters !  One,  as  stated,  was  given 
me  by  the  housekeeper  of  Sutton  House.  The  other  two 
I  had  used  getting  in  at  Sea  Foam — one  written  by  Alice 
from  her  Washington  City  address,  the  other  written  by 
myself  in  my  own  proper  person.  In  it  I  had  stated  that 
Emily  Porter  had  been  for  twenty  years  in  the  service  of 
my  mother,  and  since  my  mother's  death  she  had  been  in 
my  employ. 

After  the  writers  of  these  letters  were  communicated  with 
I  expected,  in  course  of  time,  to  get  the  refusal  of  a  position 
in  a  private  family — as  waitress,  second  girl,  or  chamber- 
maid. That  was  as  I  expected  the  matter  to  develop. 

What  happened?  Within  five  minutes  after  I  entered 
the  agency,  before  I  had  paid  my  fee  or  handed  hi  my 
letters,  two  women  were  bidding  for  my  services.  Both 
were  expensively  gowned,  both  lived  in  a  quasi-fashionable 
suburb  of  New  York,  and  both  wished  me  to  come  to  her 
at  once  as  second  maid,  the  difference  between  the  two 
being  that  one  had  children  and  the  other  dogs. 

I  elected  the  one  with  children.  Instead  of  her  waiting 
and  investigating  my  references  she  insisted  on  my  accom- 


96        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

panying  her  back  home,  giving  me  three  hours  to  meet  her 
at  the  railroad-station.  When  I  saw  her  house  I  understood 
her  hurry.  Chaos !  Dirty  chaos  at  that.  The  cook,  Irish, 
of  course,  told  me  that  five  maids  had  come  and  gone  dur- 
ing the  two  previous  weeks. 

The  house  had  fifteen  rooms,  two  baths,  a  large  cellar, 
two  wide  porches,  and  two  wider  piazzas.  There  was  a  lot 
of  shrubbery  on  the  place  and  several  long  brick  walks. 
In  the  family  there  was  a  young-lady  daughter,  the  mother, 
the  only  son,  two  younger  daughters,  the  father,  and  a  little 
girl  of  six.  I  name  them  in  the  order  of  their  relative  im- 
portance. 

The  little  girl,  the  mother  once  explained  in  the  presence 
of  the  child,  was  a  mistake.  On  the  birth  of  her  son,  hav- 
ing decided  that  four  children  were  enough,  she  determined 
to  have  no  more — hence  the  difference  of  ten  years  between 
her  son  and  little  Mistake. 

Had  these  people  been  content  to  live  in  a  house  of  eight 
rooms,  and  do  then*  own  work  with  the  assistance  of  a 
woman  to  do  the  laundry  and  the  heavier  cooking,  they 
would  have,  in  all  human  probability,  been  a  happy  family. 
They  were  good-natured,  good-looking,  and  with  sufficient 
traces  of  good  breeding  to  have  made  them  attractive. 

During  the  seven  days  that  I  remained  with  them  I  never 
got  to  my  room,  which  was  in  the  garret  and  shared  by  the 
cook,  before  nine  o'clock  at  night.  How  I  did  work !  I 
did  everything  from  firing  the  furnace  to  running  ribbons 
in  the  underwear  of  the  marriageable  daughter. 

For  upward  of  two  years  it  had  been  the  chief  ambition 
of  the  family  to  marry  off  this  eldest  girl.  When  I  came 
on  the  scene  it  had  become,  so  they  all  thought,  a  vital 
necessity.  And  I,  succumbing  to  the  atmosphere  around 
me,  did  my  best  to  help  along  the  match.  The  mother  ex- 
plained to  me  that  if  they  could  only  announce  the  engage- 
ment of  this  daughter  the  maiden  aunt,  for  whom  she  was 


FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES  97 

named,  would  see  to  it  that  she  had  a  proper  wedding  and 
also  pay  the  family  debts. 

The  idea  that  these  three  grown  girls,  the  youngest  being 
past  eighteen,  might  work  and  earn  then-  own  living  never 
seemed  to  enter  their  mother's  head.  The  fact  that  they 
did  not  work,  did  not  know  how  to  do  anything  more  use- 
ful than  to  play  tennis  and  golf,  she  proclaimed  from  the» 
housetops.  Sad  to  relate,  it  was  the  literal  truth.  So  far 
as  I  could  learn,  neither  of  them  had  ever  done  so  much 
as  make  a  bed,  dust  a  room,  or  mend  a  garment.  I 
never  knew  them  to  pick  up  a  magazine,  a  book,  or  a  sofa- 
pillow,  though  they  knew  how  to  scatter  them  broadcast. 
No,  indeed,  it  was  beneath  their  dignity  to  do  anything 
to  keep  their  home  comfortable  or  clean,  yet  they  boasted 
of  skill  at  tennis  and  their  golf  score. 

What  a  silly  un-American  idea  it  is  that  knocking  a  ball 
across  country  is  more  ennobling  than  doing  anything  that 
tends  to  make  a  home  comfortable  and  happy !  Will  any- 
body deny  that  it  takes  more  sense  to  cook  or  serve  a  good 
dinner  than  it  does  to  play  a  good  game  of  golf?  Now  I 
am  not  decrying  the  game  of  golf.  Indeed,  it  appeals  to 
me  as  a  very  good  way  to  get  elderly  and  delicate  persons, 
who  take  no  interest  hi  nature,  to  exercise  in  the  fresh  air. 

For  a  person  who  cares  for  wild  or  growing  things  golf 
is  impossible.  I  cannot  imagine  Theodore  Roosevelt  wish- 
ing to  become  expert  at  golf.  I  can  imagine  the  number 
of  balls  he  would  have  lost  while  watching  a  bird,  investigat- 
ing a  gopher  hole,  or  studying  a  plant. 

Besides,  I  have  for  a  good  many  years  had  a  pet  theory 
— why  Colonel  Roosevelt  did  not  cultivate  the  game  of 
golf.  May  he  not  have  felt  sure  that  he  could  learn  nothing 
from  persons  met  on  the  links — rich  idlers,  men  who  have 
"made  their  pile,"  always  hidebound  conservatives  and 
their  hangers-on?  We  all  know  that  the  most  popular  of 
our  Presidents  was  interested  hi  workers  in  every  field — 


98        FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

eager  to  learn  their  opinion,  to  get  their  point  of  view.  Was 
he  ever  known  to  show  interest  in  the  mind  processes  of  an 
idler? 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  so  recent  example  of  this  most  typical 
American,  mothers  and  fathers,  American  men  and  women, 
persist  in  bringing  their  children  up  with  the  Old  World 
prejudice  against  useful  work.  They  may  spend  any 
amount  of  time  and  energy  on  any  work  provided  it  is  silly 
and  useless,  but  let  it  only  become  useful  and  at  once  it 
becomes  a  stigma,  a  disgrace. 

And  so  it  was  with  this  family.  The  three  girls  could  all 
play  a  little  on  the  piano  and  sing  a  little  with  their  kitten 
voices.  Each  was  ardently  certain  that  she  could  drive 
an  automobile  if  only  her  father  could  be  induced  to  buy 
one — poor  silent,  care-worn,  overworked  father!  He  loved 
his  wife  and  was  very  fond  of  his  children,  yet  I  think  he 
used  to  dread  to  come  home  and  at  the  same  tune  be  afraid 
not  to  come. 

When  I  told  the  cook  of  my  intention  to  leave  at  the  end 
of  my  first  week  she  called  me  a  fool.  She  urged  me  to  fol- 
low her  example  and  stick  it  out  long  enough  to  have  some- 
thing worth  going  to  court  about. 

The  mother  and  three  daughters  felt  ill  used  when  I  an- 
nounced my  departure.  The  eldest  daughter  remarked 
that  she  really  didn't  see  what  more  a  second  girl  would 
want — nobody  ever  interfered  with  me,  they  let  me  have 
my  own  way.  Her  mother  told  me  that  I  really  must  wait 
until  Saturday.  Her  husband  never  gave  her  money  for 
the  servants  except  on  Saturdays — it  was  then  Tuesday. 
She  gave  me  the  use  of  the  family  commutation  ticket  with 
the  understanding  that  I  was  to  deliver  little  Mistake  to 
her  maiden  aunt. 

That  enabled  me  to  truthfully  assure  Alice  and  the  hat- 
trimmer  that  the  experience  had  not  cost  me  anything  even 
though  I  had  received  no  wages.  This  tune  Alice  said  that 


FEMALES  OF  THE  SPECIES  99 

instead  of  my  looking  like  I  had  been  buried  and  dug  up 
I  looked  as  if  I  had  been  buried  and  had  to  scratch  my  way 
out.  Mrs.  Wilkins  agreed  with  her. 

The  next  day  was  the  end  of  our  partnership.  Alice, 
obeying  her  mother,  returned  to  her  home.  I  accompanied 
her  to  the  train,  and  received  as  much  advice  as  could  be 
packed  into  fifteen  minutes  by  a  fast  talker.  Though  can- 
dor forces  me  to  admit  that  most  of  it  flowed  out  of  one 
ear  as  fast  as  it  was  driven  into  the  other,  a  few  pieces  did 
reach  my  brain  and  so  lodged  in  the  meshes  of  my  memory. 
One  of  these  lodgments  was  an  earnest  request  that  I  for- 
sake the  help-wanted  column  and  confine  myself  to  repu- 
table employment  agencies.  And  Alice  emphasized  repu- 
table. 

Earlier  in  the  winter,  following  Alice's  advice,  I  had  tried 
an  agency  which  made  a  specialty  of  placing  college  grad- 
uates. I  had  registered,  paid  my  dollar,  and  been  told  they 
would  communicate  with  me  as  soon  as  anything  along 
my  line  turned  up.  Now,  on  my  way  back  to  the  rooming- 
house,  after  watching  Alice  get  aboard  the  train  for  Wash- 
ington City,  I  called  again  at  this  agency  and  reminded 
them  of  my  application. 

Much  to  my  surprise,  I  learned  that  I  was  an  unskilled 
worker  in  my  own  line.  Because  I  had  never  been  a  proof- 
reader, sat  in  an  editorial  chair,  nor  taught  a  class  in  story- 
writing  I  was  unskilled.  Neither  my  college  degree  nor 
the  fact  that  I  had  published  several  novels  amounted  to 
a  row  of  pins.  H'm,  I  thought,  why  did  you  go  to  the 
trouble  of  changing  your  name  and  otherwise  sailing  under 
false  colors?  As  an  unskilled  worker  you  are  really  hi  the 
class  to  which  you  belong. 

From  this  agency  I  went  to  a  "placement  bureau,"  the 
annex  of  a  semiphilanthropic  organization  whose  specialty 
is  "reduced  gentlewomen."  Here  the  charge  was  fifty  cents 
for  registration.  When  it  came  my  turn  to  be  interviewed 


100      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

by  the  overdressed  woman  in  charge,  she  earnestly  advised 
me  to  take  a  secretarial  course  at  a  particular  school.  She 
gave  me  her  personal  card  to  the  head  of  this  school  and 
assured  me  that  she  had  more  demands  for  graduates  from 
this  school  than  she  could  possibly  fill  that  season.  As  I 
had  overheard  her  give  the  same  advice  to  three  other 
women  I  was  not  very  much  impressed.  However,  as  I 
had  come  there  for  advice  I  decided  to  see  how  far  hers 
would  take  me. 

At  the  school  I  learned  that  the  shortest  course  was  for 
six  months,  and  the  lowest  price  was  one  hundred  dollars. 
The  head  of  the  school  smilingly  informed  me  that  as 
I  might  not  have  to  study  English  a  reduction,  perhaps 
ten  dollars,  might  be  arranged  for. 

Returning  to  the  " placement  bureau,"  I  applied  to  the 
same  overdressed  individual  for  part-tune  work  that  would 
give  me  my  maintenance  while  I  was  studying  to  become  a 
secretary.  She  gave  me  cards  of  introduction  to  the  matron 
of  two  institutions. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS 

MRS.  BOSSMAN,  the  matron  of  St.  Rose's  Home  for  Girls, 
which  I  reached  after  a  railroad  journey  of  several  hours, 
received  me  with  great  cordiality.  She  was  very  much  in 
need  of  a  secretary,  she  said,  and,  while  not  able  to  pay  a 
salary,  would  be  glad  to  give  me  a  comfortable  room  with 
my  board  and  laundry.  I  promised  to  move  in,  bag  and 
baggage,  the  following  morning  immediately  after  break- 
fast. At  our  first  interview  she  impressed  me  so  favorably 
that  I  failed  to  notice  either  the  thinness  of  her  lips  or  the 
color  of  her  eyes. 

On  my  return  the  following  morning  she  again  greeted 
me  with  great  cordiality.  And  even  as  I  accepted  her  ex- 
tended hand  the  color  and  expression  of  her  eyes,  and  the 
thinness  of  her  lips  were  revealed  to  me  as  though  by  a 
blaze  of  light.  With  this  realization  there  flashed  across 
my  memory  a  remark  of  the  late  Mrs.  Jefferson  Davis. 

I  had  been  to  the  opera — "Faust"  with  a  wonderful 
caste,  Eames  and  the  two  de  Reski.  On  my  return  I  went 
into  Mrs.  Davis'  bedroom — I  was  spending  the  winter  in 
New  York  under  her  chaperonage — to  tell  her  about  it. 
She  was  sitting  up  in  bed  reading,  and  laying  her  book 
aside  she  listened  attentively  to  my  praise  of  Marguerite 
and  Faust,  and  my  criticism  of  Mephisto.  Then  I  boldly 
declared : 

"Only  a  tall,  thin  man,  intensely  brunette,  should  at- 
tempt to  play  the  devil." 

"A  tall,  thin,  dark  man?"  Mrs.  Davis  questioned,  shak- 
ing her  head.  Then  she  took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped 
them.  "No,  my  dear.  No.  My  idea  of  the  devil  is  a 

101 


102      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

beautiful  blonde  woman  with  childishly  innocent  blue  eyes 
and  thin  lips.  Yes,  the  devil  is  a  woman.  I'm  sure  of  it. 
Only  a  woman  of  the  type  I  describe  will  conceive,  plan,  and 
perpetrate  a  deed  of  supremest  cruelty  and  selfishness.  I 
never  trust  a  blonde  woman." 

What  queer  ideas  old  women  have !  As  if  the  color  of  a 
person's  eyes  and  hair  really  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
quality  of  their  heart.  Then  there  popped  into  my  mind 
a  lawyer,  a  member  of  the  New  York  City  bar  in  good 
standing,  who  had  gravely  cautioned  me  against  trusting 
a  man  who  "ran-down"  his  shoes.  Evidently  queerness 
was  not  limited  to  old  women. 

But  a  woman  with  the  intelligence  of  the  widow  of  the 
President  of  the  Confederacy — the  thousands  of  persons 
she  had  met  and  known  during  her  eighty  years — might  not 
her  judgment  be  of  value?  All  of  these  thoughts  raced 
through  my  consciousness  during  the  brief  instant  that 
Mrs.  Bossman  clasped  my  hand.  Vexed  by  what  seemed 
to  me  my  own  trivial  mind,  I  was  pleased  by  her  sugges- 
tion to  take  me  to  my  room. 

Such  a  charming  room  it  proved  to  be !  On  the  second 
floor  and  immediately  over  the  main  entrance  to  St.  Rose. 
It  was  tastefully  furnished  and  spotlesssly  clean.  At  the 
end  facing  the  door  there  was  a  broad  double  window  fes- 
tooned by  ivy  that  looked  into  the  green  feathery  foliage 
of  a  giant  elm. 

Gratified  by  my  exclamation  of  pleased  surprise,  Mrs. 
Bossman  told  me  that  she  had  selected  the  room  because 
it  was  next  her  own  and  convenient  to  the  bathroom,  shared 
by  herself  and  Miss  Pugh,  the  assistant  matron.  Miss 
Pugh,  she  explained,  was  an  old  friend  whom  she  had  in- 
duced to  give  up  her  former  position  in  a  large  foundling 
asylum  to  come  to  St.  Rose.  She,  Miss  Pugh,  was  a  won- 
derful disciplinarian,  and  as  chockful  of  ideas  as  an  egg 
with  meat.  With  her  as  her  assistant,  and  me  as  her  secre- 


ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS  103 

tary,  Mrs.  Bossman  declared  that  she  felt  her  success 
assured. 

She  had  been  in  charge  of  St.  Rose,  I  then  learned,  less 
than  two  months.  Previous  to  coming  there  she  had,  for 
many  years,  been  at  the  head  of  a  reformatory. 

Chatting  about  odds  and  ends,  Mrs.  Bossman  waited 
while  I  removed  my  coat  and  hat,  and  brushed  my  hair  a 
bit.  Just  as  I  turned  away  from  the  mirror  there  was  a 
quick  rap  on  the  door,  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply  in 
stepped  a  little  woman  whose  head  reminded  me  sharply 
of  a  hickory-nut  doll. 

"My  dear!"  she  cried,  grabbing  hold  of  my  hand. 
"Three  educated  women!"  She  indicated  herself,  Mrs. 
Bossman,  and  me.  "We  can  stand  against  the  world." 

Just  what  call  we  would  have  to  stand  against  the  world 
I  did  not  understand.  Being  ready  to  do  my  best  as  secre- 
tary to  the  matron  of  St.  Rose,  I  graciously  accepted  her 
greeting  and  the  compliments  that  appeared  to  belong  to 
it.  Walking  between  the  two  I  passed  down  the  broad 
stairs  and  into  the  private  office  of  the  head  of  the  insti- 
tution. 

Confidently  expecting  to  spend  the  summer  in  this 
charming  place  I  glanced  about  the  room  that  was  to  be 
my  headquarters.  Like  every  part  of  the  house  that  I  had 
seen,  this  room  was  spotlessly  clean  and  furnished  tastefully. 

Sprays  of  ivy  moved  by  the  breeze  peeked  in  at  the  two 
broad  windows  that,  opening  on  the  street,  were  shaded 
from  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun  by  the  low-sweeping  limbs 
of  the  elm.  From  the  windows  my  eyes  travelled  to  the 
walls.  I  met  the  gaze  of  several  bewhiskered  gentlemen 
of  solemn  countenance  in  clerical  garb  and  black  frames. 

My  secretarial  duties,  as  then  outlined  to  me,  would 
consume  about  two  hours  each  morning,  excepting  Sundays. 
Once  I  had  finished  this  daily  stint  my  tune  was  to  be  my 
own  to  do  with  as  I  preferred. 


"Only,"  Mrs.  Bossman  added  smilingly,  "Miss  Pugh 
and  I  both  hope  that  you  will  spend  at  least  a  few  evenings 
with  us  in  my  private  sitting-room." 

Why  did  Mrs.  Davis'  caution  against  blonde  women  keep 
bobbing  up  in  my  mind  ?  Ah,  why  indeed ! 

Being  in  my  room  when  the  lunch-bell  sounded,  I  was 
a  fraction  of  a  minute  late  entering  the  dining-room.  A 
woman  whom  I  had  never  seen  met  me  and  introduced  her- 
self as  the  housekeeper.  She  gave  me  as  my  permanent 
place  a  chair  at  a  long  table  about  which  there  were  already 
seated  eighteen  women. 

When  I  had  taken  my  chair  the  housekeeper  took  her 
seat  and  introduced  me  to  the  other  women.  As  each 
name  was  called  the  owner  would  glance  up  at  me,  nod  her 
head,  and  then  drop  her  eyes  back  to  her  plate  of  soup. 
Never  a  smile,  not  one  word.  The  soup  finished,  while  they 
waited  for  the  next  course  I  noticed  that  three  or  four 
women  spoke  to  their  next  neighbors,  always  so  low  that 
they  seemed  to  whisper. 

Was  this  the  effect  of  the  presence  of  a  stranger?  I 
wondered.  If  so  it  was  up  to  me  to  break  the  ice.  Select- 
ing for  my  first  attack  a  handsome  woman  with  red  hair, 
who  sat  just  across  the  table  from  me,  I  inquired  in  what 
capacity  she  was  connected  with  St.  Rose. 

She  was  the  "mother"  of  a  cottage,  she  informed  me. 
All  present  excepting  the  housekeeper,  the  seamstress,  and 
myself  were  either  cottage  mothers  or  their  assistants. 
Yes,  they  took  all  their  meals  in  the  dining-room.  The 
children  ate  in  then-  cottages — that  is,  excepting  the  large 
girls  serving  us.  They  took  their  meals  in  the  kitchen  with 
the  cook. 

By  a  persistent  effort,  addressing  directly  first  one 
woman  and  then  another,  I  succeeded  in  arousing  quite  a 
buzz  of  conversation.  Suddenly  silence.  Even  sentences 
already  begun  broke  off  half  uttered,  as  though  the  tongues 


ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS  105 

had  become  suddenly  paralyzed.  Puzzled,  I  glanced 
around  the  table.  The  eyes  of  every  woman,  even  the 
housekeeper,  were  fastened  on  her  plate;  more  puzzled,  I 
glanced  around  the  room. 

Mrs.  Bossman  and  Miss  Pugh  had  entered  and  were 
taking  their  seats  at  a  small  table  near  the  door.  After 
this  the  women  seated  at  the  long  table  opened  their  lips 
only  for  food.  At  the  small  table  the  matron  and  her 
assistant  conversed  in  subdued  tones.  After  making  two 
or  three  remarks  in  the  hope  of  reviving  the  conversation  I 
gave  up.  Judging  by  their  faces,  I  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  make  myself  entertaining  at  a  table  of  deaf-mutes.  So 
to  the  end  of  the  meal — depressed  and  depressing  silence. 

After  lunch,  on  my  expressing  a  wish  to  be  made  useful, 
the  assistant  matron  invited  me  to  go  with  her  to  one  of 
the  cottages.  This  " mother"  was  having  her  afternoon  off. 

Much  to  my  surprise  I  found  that  the  attractiveness  of 
St.  Rose  did  not  extend  beyond  the  building  occupied  by 
the  matron  and  her  immediate  staff.  Desolate  is  the  only 
word  that  adequately  describes  the  cottage  to  which  Miss 
Pugh  conducted  me.  Never  a  picture  on  the  walls,  not  a 
flower,  nor  a  book.  Bare  walls  of  a  forlorn  dingy  tint,  and 
dingier  floors.  Even  the  bewhiskered  gentlemen  in  their 
black  frames  would  have  been  an  improvement. 

There  were  thirty-odd  little  girls  in  this  cottage  ranging 
in  age  from  five  to  thirteen  years.  The  supper,  which  was 
served  by  the  older  girls  under  the  supervision  of  the  as- 
sistant matron,  consisted  of  canned  salmon,  bread  cut  in 
hunks,  and  sweet  milk.  The  tables  were  bare,  unpainted, 
and  as  dingy  as  the  floors.  Indeed  they  looked  to  be  a 
piece  of  the  floor.  The  crockery  was  of  the  cheapest, 
nicked  and  sticky,  and  there  were  no  napkins. 

Since  that  day  I  have  visited  many  tenement  homes.  I 
have  been  in  the  homes  of  New  York  City's  poorest.  In 
none  of  them  did  I  find  less  attempt  made  to  humanize 


106      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

the  unlovely  sordid  surroundings.  Even  in  the  home  of  the 
drunken  Irish  mother,  who  had  sold  every  stick  of  furniture 
excepting  a  broken  table  and  the  mattress  she  and  her 
children  huddled  on,  I  saw  a  picture  of  the  Virgin. 

St.  Rose's  Home  for  Girls  was  conducted  by  a  church 
claiming  to  follow  the  teachings  of  Him  who  said:  "Suffer 
the  little  children  to  come  unto  Me." 

On  my  remarking  to  one  of  the  older  girls  that  they  all 
took  such  dainty  helpings,  she  explained  that  each  child 
had  to  clean  its  plate.  That  was  the  rule,  now,  she  said. 
This  seemed  such  a  good  rule  that  I  told  the  table,  in  a  way 
I  imagined  to  be  humorous,  that  Mr.  Hoover  would  be 
glad  to  know  how  much  they  were  helping  him.  Though 
they  knew  all  about  Mr.  Hoover  there  was  no  smile,  and  I 
noticed  that  two  of  the  older  girls  exchanged  glances  and 
lifted  their  eyebrows. 

A  minute  or  so  later  a  slight  disturbance  at  a  table  be- 
hind me  attracted  my  attention.  The  assistant  matron 
was  standing  over  a  little  girl,  forcing  her  to  eat  food  left 
on  her  plate  at  lunch,  and  using  her  forefinger  in  the  opera- 
tion. It  was  the  longest  and  boniest  forefinger  I  had  ever 
seen.  And  that  plate  of  cold  spaghetti  was  about  as  appe- 
tizing as  some  of  the  messes  dished  up  to  the  waitresses  at 
the  Hotel  Sea  Foam. 

Now,  I  belong  to  a  family  noted  for  good  health  and  per- 
fect digestion.  So  much  so  that  humorous  friends  declare 
we  can,  one  and  all,  digest  flint  rocks.  Yet  I  do  not  believe 
that  I  could  have  swallowed,  much  less  digested,  that  mass 
of  cold,  sloppy,  bluish  spaghetti. 

The  victim  of  this  economic  tyranny  was  a  delicate  little 
girl  of  about  six  years.  Her  cheeks  were  colorless,  her  lips 
were  almost  as  white,  and  there  were  dark  circles  about  her 
eyes.  Glancing  around  my  eyes  took  in  the  sordid  unlove- 
liness  of  the  whole  scene — and  the  little  children  with 
meekly  bowed  heads,  forcing  down  food  which  I  could  see 


ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS  107 

few  if  any  relished.  A  lump  rose  in  my  throat,  and  a  mist 
obscured  my  sight. 

How  could  any  woman !  How  could  Miss  Pugh !  She 
was  not  a  blonde.  As  though  feeling  my  stare  the  assistant 
matron  relinquished  her  hold  on  the  girl's  shoulder,  and 
straightening  up,  faced  me. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Bossman's  order,"  she  said.  "She  found 
it  a  most  satisfactory  disciplinary  measure  in  her  reforma- 
tory work.  You  knew  she  had  been  in  that  work,  didn't 
you?" 

"Ah?"  I  replied,  as  my  estimate  of  Mrs.  Jefferson 
Davis'  judgment  bounded  upward.  Living  to  be  eighty 
has  its  compensations.  Perhaps  in  time  I  may  learn  to 
distrust  men  who  do  not  tread  squarely  on  their  heels. 

At  dinner  that  evening  the  talk  was  more  general  than 
it  had  been  at  lunch.  The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Bossman  and 
Miss  Pugh  resulted  in  the  same  frosty  atmosphere.  Deter- 
mined not  to  finish  my  meal  staring  at  my  plate  while  I 
shovelled  down  food,  I  fired  question  after  question  at  the 
woman  with  red  hair.  Amused,  and  I  believe  not  a  little 
encouraged  by  my  daring,  she  finally  took  hold  and  kept 
her  end  of  the  conversation  going. 

During  the  balance  of  that  meal  we  kept  up  a  steady 
flow  of  talk,  back  and  forth,  across  the  table.  Not  another 
woman  said  a  word.  Even  the  matron  and  her  assistant 
stopped  whispering  to  each  other.  As  I  now  recall  it,  that 
conversation  included  the  heavens,  the  earth,  and  the 
waters  under  the  earth.  As  we  were  leaving,  the  red- 
haired  woman  slipped  her  hand  through  my  arm  and 
whispered: 

"Come  over  to  my  cottage  to-morrow  when  you  finish 
your  work.  I'd  like  you  to  see  my  children.  I  have  forty 
little  girls." 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  the  next  day  when  I  joined 
her.  Her  older  girls  were  at  school,  and  the  little  tots  were 


108   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

playing  in  a  sand-pile  in  the  yard.  She,  seated  on  an  up- 
turned soap-box  under  the  trees,  was  making  tatting. 

Chatting  with  her  I  learned  that  she  was  Miss  Jessup, 
and  had  an  orphaned  niece  and  nephew  dependent  on  her. 
Having  been  a  saleswoman  in  Chicago  for  years,  she  had, 
at  length,  broken  away  and  come  to  New  York,  firm  in 
her  faith  of  "bettering"  herself. 

"The  stores  were  turnin'  off  salespeople  instead  of  takin' 
'em  on,"  she  told  me,  speaking  of  her  efforts  to  get  a  posi- 
tion in  New  York.  "I  was  'most  on  my  uppers  when  I 
heard  about  this  place.  The  pay  ain't  so  bad,  and  I  just 
love  children.  Mrs.  Bossman  is  new,  you  know.  I  don't 
know  how  long  she'll  keep  me,  but  as  long  as  she  does" — her 
jaw  squared — "I'm  goin'  to  see  to  it  that  my  forty  gets  a 
square  deal." 

"  Among  so  many  I  suppose  there  must  be  some  of  the 
mothers  who  do  not  understand  the  children  in  their  care," 
I  questioned,  with  the  same  object  that  a  fisherman  throws 
out  a  baited  hook. 

"No,  they're  all  right,"  she  assured  me  positively. 
"There  isn't  one  of  them  who  doesn't  do  her  best  with  her 
cottage.  An'  things  ain't  as  easy  for  us  as  it  used  to  be, 
neither."  Here  she  glanced  around,  including  the  over- 
looking windows  of  her  own  cottage.  Then  she  added: 
"Mrs.  Bossman  believes  in  what  she  calls  lovin'  discipline. 
She  got  Miss  Pugh  here  to  carry  out  the  discipline." 

"Who  carries  out  the  loving?" 

She  flashed  a  quick  smile  at  me.  She  was  an  attractive 
woman.  In  spite  of  her  grammar  I  believe  she  sprang  from 
educated  people. 

"Mrs.  Bossman,"  she  replied.  "Yes,  she  really  does 
try.  You  watch  the  back  yard  this  afternoon  after  the 
girls  come  from  school.  You'll  see  Mrs.  Bossman  walkin' 
around  with  one  of  the  older  girls — the  girl's  arm  around 
her  waist." 


ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS  109 

"Mrs.  Bossman's  waist?"  I  asked,  incredulous. 

"Mrs.  Bossman  is  holdin'  it  there.  Sometimes  she  has 
to  hold  real  hard."  She  chuckled.  "It's  odd  what  some 
folks  don't  know.  You  can  buy  the  love  of  a  man  or  a 
woman — that  is  if  you  have  their  price.  But  you  can't 
buy  the  love  of  a  child  nor  a  dog.  I  know,  for  I'm  one  of  a 
large  family,  and  I  was  brought  up  hi  the  country.  I 
know  children  and  I  know  dogs." 

After  lunch  the  assistant  matron  claimed  my  services. 
And  her  manner  was  such  that  if  by  chance  I  had  lost  my 
memory  I  would  have  been  sure  that  she  had  a  right  to 
dispose  of  my  time.  Conducting  me  to  a  cottage  of  which 
the  mother  was  taking  her  afternoon  off,  she  left  me  in 
charge.  It  being  a  rainy  day  the  children  were  forced  to 
remain  indoors.  And  I  was  surprised  to  find  them  so  easily 
entertained,  or,  I  should  say,  that  they  entertained  them- 
selves. Those  who  did  not  devote  the  time  to  their  dolls 
had  some  quiet  game  which  they  played  alone  or  with  one 
or  two  others. 

By  and  by,  noticing  how  each  child  seemed  trying  to 
crouch  within  herself,  or  huddled  against  her  neighbor,  I 
realized  they  must  be  cold — it  being  a  chilly  afternoon. 
When  I  proposed  a  romping  game,  something  to  warm  them 
all  up,  they  exchanged  glances  and  shook  their  heads. 
Then  one  of  the  older  girls,  taking  her  stand  close  beside 
my  chair,  explained: 

"We  used  to  play  lovely  games — blindman's  buff,  base, 
and  a  lot  of  others  that  Mrs.  Hoskins  taught  us,  but" — she 
shrugged  her  shoulders — "Miss  Bossman  said  we  made 
too  much  noise,  and " 

A  little  girl  seated  nearer  the  door  reached  over  and  gave 
the  speaker's  apron  a  sharp  pull,  at  the  same  time  motion- 
ing with  her  head  toward  the  door.  Instantly  the  child 
who  had  been  talking  to  me  slipped  back  to  her  seat  on 
the  floor  and  picked  up  her  doll.  For  a  moment  there  was 


110   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

profound  silence.  Though  every  one  of  the  little  people 
appeared  to  be  intent  on  her  own  play,  I  felt  sure  that  even 
the  littlest  tot  was  holding  her  breath. 

There  was  a  faint  rustle — something  on  the  other  side 
of  the  closed  door  had  moved.  The  children  exchanged 
glances  but  made  no  sound. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  tie  your  doll's  sash?"  I  asked 
the  littlest  tot. 

She  was  standing  by  the  arm  of  my  chair,  her  doll's  face 
downward  on  my  knee,  when  glancing  up  I  found  Miss 
Pugh  entering  the  door.  Of  course  she  was  smiling. 
Women  of  her  type  smile  even  when  brushing  their  teeth. 

She  explained  that  when  " rushing"  by  she  had  dropped 
in  to  see  how  I  was  getting  along.  At  the  word  "rush"  I 
again  saw  the  older  girls  exchange  glances — children  are 
not  so  blind  as  many  of  their  elders  imagine.  Being  in  a 
rush  the  assistant  matron  could  remain  only  a  few  minutes. 
The  little  folks  took  her  going  as  calmly  as  they  had  her 
entrance. 

When  supper-time  came  the  older  girls  whose  turn  it 
was  to  prepare  the  meal,  went  about  their  task  without  any 
reminder  from  me.  After  setting  the  tables  and  drawing 
up  the  food  from  the  kitchen  on  the  dumb-waiter,  they 
announced  that  supper  was  served.  When  the  others  came 
trooping  in  they  seated  the  little  ones  and  helped  them  put 
on  then:  bibs. 

Then,  after  whispering  among  themselves,  one — perhaps 
the  oldest — called  my  attention  to  a  plate  of  cold  food,  and 
pointed  out  the  little  girl  who  had  failed  to  eat  it  at  lunch. 

Without  a  word  I  took  the  plate  and  emptied  it  into  the 
garbage-bucket.  For  a  moment  there  was  not  a  sound, 
not  a  movement.  Then  all  eyes  turned  and  stared  at  me. 
Then  they  stared  at  each  other.  A  little  girl  chuckled  and 
rapped  softly  on  the  table  with  her  spoon.  The  next  in- 
stant every  little  girl  was  chuckling  and  beating  softly  on 
the  table  with  her  spoon. 


ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS  111 

It  was  a  subdued  demonstration.  Every  one  of  these 
little  people  understood  just  what  had  happened.  Also 
they  realized  that  something  unpleasant  might  happen  if 
it  were  found  out. 

Late  that  afternoon  I  learned  that  my  room  was  to  be 
changed — from  the  cheerful  surroundings  of  the  building 
in  which  the  matron  lived  to  the  dingy  desolation  of  the 
cottage  in  which  I  had  spent  that  afternoon.  This  informa- 
tion was  not  given  me  by  either  the  matron  or  her  assistant. 
I  was  told  by  the  girl  who  was  to  change  with  me.  She  had 
come  to  St.  Rose,  so  she  explained,  for  the  purpose  of  train- 
ing for  an  institutional  worker,  and  had  been  helping  Mrs. 
Hoskins,  for  whom  I  had  substituted  that  afternoon.  She 
didn't  like  it,  and  neither  did  I. 

After  supper  Mrs.  Bossman  smilingly  informed  me  that 
I  had  managed  the  children  so  charmingly  that  she  had  de- 
cided to  change  me  to  that  cottage.  She  was  sure  I  would 
be  of  great  assistance  to  the  mother,  so  much  more  useful 
to  St.  Rose.  It  really  did  seem  a  pity,  she  went  on,  to  waste 
my  genius  for  managing  children — yes,  it  was  nothing  short 
of  genius — on  her  small  correspondence. 

Glad  to  be  thrown  more  closely  with  the  children,  and 
sincerely  wishing  to  be  of  use  to  the  institution,  I  agreed  to 
the  change.  Though  conscious  that  several  of  the  workers 
had  watched  us  closely  during  Mrs.  Bossman's  explanation, 
I  did  not  dream  that  any  of  them  excepting,  perhaps,  the 
girl  was  interested. 

On  going  to  my  room  with  the  intention  of  packing  and 
being  ready  to  move  to  the  cottage  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  I  found  Miss  Jessup  waiting  for  me.  Her  face 
was  pale,  and  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  her  mouth 
had  a  very  stern  expression. 

"Did  you  come  here  to  take  Mrs.  Hoskins'  job?"  she 
demanded  as  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  me. 

"Mrs.  Hoskins!"  I  exclaimed,  so  surprised  that  for  a 


112   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

moment  my  memory  failed  me.  "Who  on  earth  is  Mrs. 
Hoskins?" 

Her  mouth  became  more  stern. 

"The  mother  whose  place  you  took  this  afternoon.  You 
never  met  her  because  she  won't  take  her  meals  here.  She 
takes  'em  with  the  children — eats  with  'em  same  as  she 
would  with  her  own.  She  got  the  idea  that  it  makes  the 
children  feel  more  like  home,  havin'  her  eat  at  the  table 
with  'em.  There  ain't  no  doubt  about  it  givin'  'em  better 
manners,  though  Mrs.  Bossman  says  it's  not  good  dis- 
cipline." 

Miss  Jessup  then  assured  me  that  Mrs.  Hoskins  was  the 
best  mother  at  St.  Rose.  She  was  a  widow  and  had  lost 
her  husband  and  two  children  before  she  was  thirty.  Ever 
since,  for  more  than  twenty  years,  she  had  been  mothering 
motherless  girls  at  St.  Rose.  The  children  under  her  care 
were  the  best  trained,  received  the  highest  marks  in  their 
school,  both  in  deportment  and  studies,  and  they  were, 
one  and  all,  devoted  to  their  "mother." 

But  Mrs.  Hoskins  had  not  co-operated  as  cordially  in 
carrying  out  Mrs.  Bossman's  theories  as  that  lady  wished. 
One  of  these  theories  was  forcing  a  child  to  eat  all  food  left 
on  its  plate  at  the  previous  meal.  She  also  objected  to  the 
children  doing  all  the  housework.  She  thought  some  work 
too  heavy  even  for  the  older  girls. 

Mrs.  Bossman  intended,  according  to  Miss  Jessup,  to 
have  me  act  as  Mrs.  Hoskins'  assistant  for  a  couple  of  weeks, 
or  as  long  as  it  might  take  for  me  to  learn  the  ropes. 
Then  she  would  discharge  Mrs.  Hoskins  and  install  me  as 
"mother." 

"I  ain't  sayin'  you  wouldn't  make  a  good  mother,"  Miss 
Jessup  wound  up.  "I  dunno  but  what  I  believe  you  would 
make  a  first-class  one.  What  I  aims  at  is  to  get  you  to 
wait.  I'll  be  movin'  on  soon — goin'  back  to  Chicago.  If 
you  would  wait  and  take  my  cottage.  I  don't  want  to  see 


ST.  ROSE'S  HOME  FOR  GIRLS  113 

Mrs.  Hoskins  turned  out.  It  would  break  her  heart. 
That's  a  fact.  None  of  us  wants  her  turned  out.  I'll  go 
at  the  end  of  the  month  if — if  you  want  me  to." 

"May  the  Lord  love  you,  woman!"  I  exclaimed,  more 
moved  than  I  cared  to  show.  "I  don't  want  either  Mrs. 
Hoskins'  job  or  yours.  I  wouldn't  have  either  as  a  gracious 
gift." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do?  YouVe  got  to  move  into  her 
cottage  in  the  mornin'.  When  the  time  comes — when  Mrs. 
Bossman  discharges  Mrs.  Hoskins " 

"She'll  never  discharge  her  on  my  account,"  I  inter- 
rupted. "As  for  what  I  am  going  to  do — how  I'm  going  to 
get  out  of  it,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea.  But  you  let  me 
sleep  on  it — you'll  know  in  the  morning." 

The  next  morning  when  I  went  down  to  breakfast  I 
took  my  bag  with  me.  After  the  meal,  the  matron  not 
having  made  her  appearance,  I  bade  her  assistant  good-by. 
Beyond  saying  that  Mrs.  Bossman's  methods  did  not  ap- 
peal to  me  a  statement  seemed  unnecessary. 


CHAPTER  IX 
RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME 

BACK  again  on  the  now  deserted  top  floor  of  the  rooming- 
house,  I  turned  once  more  to  the  help-wanted  column.  An 
advertisement  about  which  Alice  and  I  had  often  speculated 
during  the  winter  caught  my  eye: 

"A  philanthropic  institution  for  children  is  in  need  of  the 
services  of  a  gentlewoman.  One  who  prefers  the  life  of  a 
comfortable  home  with  refined  surroundings  to  a  large 
salary." 

Though  well  along  toward  the  middle  of  the  day  I  de- 
cided to  try  my  luck.  Calling  up  an  address  mentioned 
hi  the  advertisement,  it  did  not  greatly  surprise  me  to 
learn  that  the  institution  was  Rodman  House.  I  had  long 
been  acquainted,  through  the  newspapers,  with  this  insti- 
tution. In  all  these  "write-ups"  the  statement  that  the 
children  in  the  home  were  surrounded  and  cared  for  exclu- 
sively by  women  of  education  and  refinement  was  always 
conspicuously  emphasized. 

To  the  wages,  fifteen  dollars  a  month,  I  did  not  give  a 
second  thought.  Having  bought  a  pair  of  new  shoes  with 
some  of  my  earnings  at  Sutton  House,  I  felt  quite  inde- 
pendent of  money.  To  tell  the  truth  so  deep  was  my 
sympathy  for  the  class  of  children  cared  for  in  the  Rodman 
Hall,  I  would  gladly  have  given  my  services.  Also,  I 
had  met  Mrs.  Howard,  who  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
work.  Familiar  as  I  was  with  her  long  and  persistent 
struggles  to  put  the  institution  on  a  sound  financial  basis, 
I  held  her  in  high  esteem. 

114 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME       115 

Speaking  to  her  over  the  telephone,  I  told  her  exactly 
who  I  was,  and  stated  honestly  my  reasons  for  wishing  the 
position — my  sympathy  with  her  plans,  and  my  desire  to 
be  closely  associated  with  the  children  for  the  sake  of  my 
work  as  a  writer. 

She  was  even  more  persistent  than  Mrs.  Bossman  in 
urging  me  to  come  at  once — that  afternoon.  Confident 
that  I  had  found  a  place  in  which  it  would  be  greatly  to 
my  advantage  to  remain  the  entire  summer,  I  hurried  back 
to  the  rooming-house  and  dived  once  more  into  the  business 
of  packing.  Such  an  accumulation!  Being  the  last  of 
those  who  had  spent  the  past  seven  months  on  the  top 
floor,  my  neighbors  on  leaving  had  presented  me  with 
everything  he  or  she  did  not  think  worth  while  taking  with 
them,  yet  considered  too  good  to  be  thrown  away — the 
Press  was  continually  cautioning  persons  against  waste  of 
any  sort,  while  every  man,  woman,  and  child  throughout 
the  country  appeared  to  be  rushing  around  gathering  all 
conceivable  articles  to  send  to  Belgium. 

Perhaps  my  neighbors  thought  of  me  as  the  Belgium  of 
that  top  floor.  They  acted  like  it. 

Mrs.  Wilkins  gave  me  a  new  Panama  hat,  the  brim  of 
which  had  been  cut  by  a  careless  trimmer. 

"They  was  throwin'  it  in  the  trash-box  when  I  seen 
'em,"  she  explained,  on  presenting  the  rescued  head- 
covering  to  me.  "All  you  have  to  do  is  to  line  the  brim, 
turn  it  up  on  the  side  or  behind  or  before — whichever  way 
most  becomes  you  in  the  face — and  fix  the  trimmin'  so  the 
cut  won't  show.  It'll  look  as  good  as  a  twenty-five-dollar 
hat  when  you  get  through." 

On  the  strength  of  having  given  me  such  an  expensive 
hat  she  asked  me  to  keep  her  cooking  utensils  and  bread- 
box.  And  as  an  eleventh-hour  reminder,  hung  her  winter 
coat  and  furs  in  my  tiny  little  wardrobe — all  to  be  kept 
until  she  "found  tune"  to  send  for  them. 


116      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Alice,  of  course,  left  behind  all  the  household  equipments 
gathered  by  the  two  of  us.  One  of  her  winter  hats,  being 
too  large  to  pack  in  her  trunk,  and  not  considered  of  suffi- 
cient value  or  becomingness  to  warrant  a  special  shipment, 
also  fell  to  my  lot.  And  along  with  it  a  gas-lamp,  a  camp- 
stool,  two  writing-desk  sets,  a  soiled  Indian  blanket — all 
Christmas  presents. 

The  little  organist  likewise  bequeathed  to  me  a  number 
of  Christmas  presents,  along  with  her  books  and  sheet- 
music  too  ragged  to  pack.  The  restaurant  owner  gave  me 
a  metal  flask  containing  about  a  pint  of  whiskey,  about 
which  he  declared:  "'Tain't  the  kind  a  man  would  drink — 
not  twice  if  he  knew  it.  But  I  thought,  being  a  lady,  you 
might  like  to  have  it  around." 

Needless  to  state  I  thanked  him  graciously.  Just  as  I 
did  the  reporter  when  he  carted  in  twenty  odd  books,  a 
file  of  daily  newspapers,  two  sofa-pillows,  and  a  moth-eaten 
slumber-robe.  The  books,  sofa-pillows  and  the  robe  had 
been  sent  him  at  that  season  of  the  year  when  the  world 
goes  mad  on  the  subject  of  giving — give  wisely  if  they  know 
how  and  have  the  money,  but  give  they  must. 

A  few  days  after  the  newspaperman's  departure  a  bam- 
boo walking-cane  with  a  wabbly  head,  a  silk  umbrella  minus 
one  rib,  and  a  grease-paint  outfit  was  presented  to  me  by 
the  man  in  the  front  skylight  room. 

"I  used  to  belong  to  the  profession,"  he  told  me,  explain- 
ing the  paints.  "Now  that  I  am  a  promoter  I  don't  need 
it.  And  this  umbrella — one  of  the  ribs  is  broken — but  it's 
silk — heavy  silk.  I  saved  it  to  have  it  mended.  One  of 
the  companies  of  which  I'm  a  director  cut  a  melon  the  other 
day,  so  I  don't  need  to  use  a  mended  umbrella." 

As  I  was  still  playing  the  part  of  Polly  Preston  my 
trunks  were  in  storage.  As  a  first  step  toward  packing 
my  collection  of  remembrances  I  hurried  to  Third  Avenue, 
and  after  considerable  searching  among  the  groceries  I 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME       117 

finally  discovered  three  suitable  boxes.  Persuasion  sup- 
plemented by  a  one-dollar  bill  induced  the  owner  to  allow 
his  errand  boy  to  take  them  to  the  rooming-house  in  his 
hand-cart.  Of  course  the  errand  boy  got  an  additional 
quarter  of  a  dollar. 

In  the  smallest  of  the  three  boxes  I  packed  my  precious 
new  shoes  and  the  other  articles  to  be  taken  to  Rodman 
Hall.  But  turn  and  twist  and  pound  as  I  might  and  did, 
I  could  not  cram  all  the  objects  to  which  I  had  fallen  heir 
into  the  two  large  boxes.  With  many  explanations  I  pre- 
sented the  overflow  to  Molly,  the  negro  maid.  Leaving 
the  house  the  next  morning  I  saw  them,  the  box  of  grease- 
paint and  all  the  rest,  in  the  garbage-can  at  the  foot  of  the 
front  steps. 

Evidently  Molly  had  not  been  receiving  private  com- 
munications from  either  Brand  Whitlock  or  Mr.  Hoover. 
How  comfortable  it  must  be  not  to  carry  the  woes  of  the 
world  on  your  shoulders ! 

After  the  hot  and  dusty  streets  of  New  York  Rodman 
Hall,  reached  after  a  considerable  run  by  the  Subway, 
seemed  a  bit  of  heaven.  Seated  back  from  the  country  road 
and  among  the  trees  the  large  house,  which  was  of  some 
dark  shade  almost  the  color  of  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  ap- 
peared to  have  grown  there — not  built  in  the  usual  way. 
There  was  no  lawn,  the  trees  were  not  overlarge  and  did  not 
impress  one  as  having  been  carefully  planted  or  pruned. 
Like  the  house  they  appeared  to  have  just  grown  there  and 
to  have  enjoyed  the  process. 

Even  the  gravel  on  the  wide  driveway  that  curved  from 
the  public  road  to  the  front  door  had  the  look  of  being  to 
that  spot  born.  And  though  the  dash  of  color  to  the  left 
of  the  house,  a  little  behind,  was  made  by  a  crimson  ram- 
bler, there  was  no  suggestion  of  the  artificial.  It  was  a 
comfortably  homey  place  without  a  suggestion  of  institu- 
tion. I  congratulated  myself  on  having  found  such  a 


118       FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

place  in  which  to  spend  the  summer — surrounded  by  chil- 
dren of  the  particular  class  cared  for  in  the  Rodman  Hall. 

Mrs.  Howard  received  me  pleasantly  and  while  showing 
me  over  the  house  she  explained  the  work  and  recounted 
the  incident  that  had  led  her  to  undertake  the  care  of  this 
type  of  defective  children.  Though  having  read  the  same 
thing  in  the  "write-ups"  of  the  Rodman  Hall  I  was  pleased 
to  have  it  authenticated.  Out  on  the  grounds  she  pointed 
out^  with  considerable  pride  an  adjoining  tract  of  land 
which  she  said  contained  sixteen  acres,  and  which  she  had 
just  purchased  for  the  institution. 

That  afternoon  one  of  the  institution's  employees  in- 
vited me  to  use  her  typewriter  to  write  a  letter  home,  noti- 
fying my  family  of  my  change  of  address.  While  doing 
this  we  carried  on  quite  a  conversation.  With  consider- 
able gusto  she  informed  me  that  she  had  been  for  years 
private  secretary  to  a  Mr.  Johnson  Bascom,  a  high  official 
of  a  large  banking  corporation.  So  confidential  had  been 
her  relations  with  her  chief,  she  proudly  assured  me,  that 
as  soon  as  the  "now  famous  investigation"  was  mooted  he 
sent  her  abroad. 

"It's  not  every  girl  that's  spent  a  year  hi  Europe,"  she 
told  me,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure.  "And  I  stopped 
at  the  best  hotels,  too — had  all  my  expenses  paid,  and  my 
salary  besides." 

"Then  you  could  have  given  valuable  testimony?"  I 
asked. 

"I  certainly  could Ve  done  that,  and  they  knew  it,  too," 
she  boasted. 

"You  were  not  afraid  to  take  their  money?" 

"  I  should  say  not.  They  were  not  giving  me  more  than 
my  absence  was  worth  to  them.  My  friends  tell  me  I  was 
a  fool  not  to  have  made  them  pay  me  more — when  you  are 
young  you  haven't  got  much  sense.  I  thought  if  I  could 
spend  a  year  abroad  I'd  be  IT." 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME      119 

"Odd  variety  of  IT  to  be  second  in  command  of  an  in- 
stitution for  young  children!"  was  my  mental  comment, 
and  I  turned  back  to  pecking  on  her  typewriter. 

That  evening  after  eight  o'clock  I  passed  through  the 
pantry  on  my  way  to  the  village  to  mail  my  letter.  The 
man  who  was  washing  dishes,  work  that  I  would  have  to 
do  the  next  day,  was  still  hard  at  work.  He  told  me  that 
it  would  be  more  than  an  hour  before  he  would  finish. 

Overtaking  one  of  the  attendants  also  on  her  way  to  the 
village,  and  finding  her  a  companionable  woman,  I  joined 
her.  During  our  walk  she  told  me  that  our  fellow  workers 
had  looked  me  over,  and  decided  that  I  "might"  remain 
two  days.  That  nettled  me  a  bit,  and  I  assured  her  of 
my  intention  to  remain  several  weeks,  perhaps  the  entire 
summer. 

She  inquired  if  Mrs.  Howard  had  given  me  the  schedule 
of  my  work  It  so  happened  that  an  assistant  had  handed 
me  two  typed  pages  just  as  I  was  leaving  to  mail  my  letters. 
Though  at  first  sight  it  did  seem  formidable  I  felt  sure  that 
by  a  little  systematizing  it  would  be  well  within  my  strength. 
Indeed  my  faith  in  Mrs.  Howard  was  such  that  I  resented 
the  suggestion  that  she  would  overtax  any  worker. 

Turning  the  conversation  I  soon  learned  that  my  com- 
panion was  the  widow  of  a  well-known  college  professor. 
She  had  been  "enticed,"  she  said,  by  an  advertisement 
similar  to  the  one  I  had  answered. 

"I  did  try  to  be  careful,"  she  assured  me,  "because  giving 
up  the  little  I  had  in  the  way  of  a  home  meant  so  much  to 
me.  Once  before  I  had  been  tricked  by  a  woman.  This 
time,  to  make  sure  that  everything  was  all  right,  I  came 
out  to  Rodman  Hall  and  talked  with  Mrs.  Howard.  The 
place  is  so  beautiful  and  that  woman  talked  so  fair  I  felt 
sure  that  I  had  found  a  comfortable  home  with  congenial 
work  for  the  balance  of  my  life."  She  shook  her  head, 
was  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  then  added:  "If  I  could  I 


120       FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

would  leave  to-morrow.  As  it  is  I've  just  got  to  stick  it 
out  until  I  get  money  enough  to  pay  my  way  back  to  the 
West  to  my  people." 

"But  the  other  women !"  I  remonstrated,  convinced  that 
the  woman  was  exaggerating  conditions.  "Surely  refined, 
educated  women " 

"Educated!"  she  scoffed.  "Excepting  Miss (nam- 
ing the  woman  with  whom  I  had  talked)  I  don't  believe  a 
one  of  them  can  do  more  than  write  her  name.  They  are  all 
foreigners.  Do  you  know  who  she  is?" 

Admitting  unwillingly  that  this  woman  had  told  me  of 
having  been  the  secretary  of  a  man  mixed  up  in  some 
financial  scandal,  I  added: 

"But  surely  you  don't  imagine  that  Mrs.  Howard  knows." 

"Don't  imagine  she  knows!  I  know  she  knows,"  the 
clergyman's  widow  declared.  "That  woman  is  one  of  Mrs. 
Howard's  standbys.  Being  an  educated  woman  and  fairly 
presentable,  Mrs.  Howard  pushes  her  forward  on  any  and 
all  occasions.  Did  Mrs.  Howard  introduce  you  to  any  of  the 
nurses?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Of  course  not.  She  wants  to  keep  up  as  long  as  pos- 
sible her  idea  about  the  children  being  cared  for  by  gentle- 
women!" The  scorn  with  which  she  pronounced  gentle- 
women !  "The  nurses  are  regular  Irish  biddies,  every  one 
of  them." 

Much  to  my  surprise  on  returning  from  the  village  a  few 
minutes  before  nine  I  discovered  that  the  sheets  had  been 
taken  off  my  bed.  They  were  not  in  the  room.  As  every- 
body in  the  house  appeared  to  be  asleep  and  I  did  not  care 
to  awaken  them,  sleeping  without  sheets  was  my  only 
alternative.  The  mattress  did  not  look  any  too  fresh,  so  I 
covered  it  with  my  two  extra  nighties. 

My  room  proved  to  be  a  little  hot-box.  Finally  I  dozed 
off  and  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  mighty  banging  and 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S   HOME       121 

beating.  The  night-watchman  was  cleaning  up  the  kitchen, 
which  was  next  my  room,  and  he  informed  me  that  he  had 
to  do  it  every  night  between  twelve  and  two.  Once  he  had 
finished  I  again  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

Another  mighty  thumping  and  bumping  brought  me 
straight  up  in  bed.  The  man  who  tended  the  furnace  was 
busy  getting  it  ready  for  the  cook.  It  was  only  a  little 
after  four  o'clock,  but  being  light  out-of-doors  I  decided  to 
get  up.  It  was  then  that  I  discovered  that  I  was  expected, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  to  wash  my  face  and  do  any  other 
bathing  of  which  I  might  feel  the  need,  in  the  kitchen-sink. 

"Evidently,"  I  remarked  to  myself,  "  when  a  gentlewoman 
meets  with  reverses  she  not  only  loses  her  sense  of  modesty, 
but  her  desire  to  keep  herself  clean.  What  next?" 

After  sweeping  and  dusting  the  piazzas,  the  parlor,  the 
schoolrooms,  the  reception-room,  and  the  stairs,  as  per 
schedule,  I  entered  the  boys'  dormitory.  While  down- 
stairs I  had  heard  a  voice  that  seemed  to  my  ears  very 
like  that  of  Mrs.  Howard  scolding  some  one.  Now  I 
found  her  in  this  dormitory  where  three  nurses  were  get- 
ting the  more  helpless  of  the  boys  out  of  bed  and  dressing 
them. 

She,  Mrs.  Howard,  reminded  me  of  an  ill-tempered  dog 
barking,  snarling,  snapping  at  everything  in  sight.  When 
I  entered  the  dormitory  she  left  off  nagging  the  three  nurses 
and  turned  on  me. 

"You're  not  beginning  very  well  this  morning,  Miss 
Porter,"  she  snarled. 

As  it  had  been  some  little  time  since  I  had  looked  at  the 
clock  I  did  not  know  but  what  I  might  be  a  little  late  in 
reaching  that  dormitory.  But  I  did  know  that  I  had  been 
working  like  a  horse  since  before  five-thirty.  Not  caring 
to  have  words  with  any  one,  Mrs.  Howard  least  of  all,  I 
passed  on  into  the  adjoining  sleeping-porch. 

Here  I  began  by  picking  up  the  night-clothes  of  the  chil- 


122   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

dren  who,  already  up  and  out,  had  dropped  them  on  the 
floor.  This  done  I  opened  up  the  beds — all  of  them  wet 
and  two  of  them  soiled. 

Because  of  a  state  law,  articles  in  such  a  condition  cannot 
be  sent  to  a  laundry — they  must  first  be  rinsed  and  dried. 
I  was  just  beginning  the  unpleasant  task  of  rinsing  prepara- 
tory to  carrying  them,  mattresses  and  bedclothes,  to  hang 
on  the  lines  in  the  back  yard,  when  Mrs.  Howard  entered. 

"You're  not  beginning  very  well  this  morning,  Miss 
Porter,"  she  again  told  me,  and  her  tone  was  unmistakably 
intended  to  be  insulting. 

My  respect  for  Mrs.  Howard  was  sincere.  Though  I 
had  been  at  Rodman  Hall  less  than  twenty-four  hours  I 
had  seen  enough  to  feel  convinced  that  the  children  were 
all  well  fed,  comfortably  housed  and  clothed,  and  tenderly 
mothered.  The  discomforts  of  my  room  and  the  huge 
amount  of  work  scheduled  for  me  were  matters  of  secon- 
dary importance.  I  felt  sure  that  by  a  judicious  use  of 
patience  and  tact  both  would  be  altered  to  my  satisfaction. 
Determined  not  to  be  drawn  into  a  dispute  with  a  woman 
for  whom  I  had  such  sincere  respect,  I  held  my  tongue. 
But  as  I  continued  to  work  I  couldn't  help  wondering 
what  had  happened  that  could  make  her  so  far  forget 
herself. 

"Where  were  you  last  night?"  she  demanded,  and  glanc- 
ing up  I  found  her  following  close  at  my  heels.  "You  were 
not  in  your  room  at  nine  o'clock.  I  took  the  sheets  off 
your  bed.  Where  were  you  ?" 

A  child  could  have  knocked  me  down,  I  was  so  amazed. 
That  Mrs.  Howard  should  use  such  an  insulting  tone  when 
addressing  me  was  enough  of  a  shock.  That  she  would  be 
guilty  of  such  an  act  of  spiteful  tyranny  as  taking  the  sheets 
off  the  bed  of  an  employee  was  unbelievable.  I  stared  at 
her,  stupidly  silent. 

"And  you're  not  beginning  so  well,  now,  are  you?"  she 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME       123 

repeated  a  third  time,  and  if  possible  her  tone  was  even 
more  insultingly  taunting. 

That  loosened  my  tongue. 

"I  may  not  have  begun  so  well,  Mrs.  Howard,"  I  told 
her  as  I  unbuttoned  my  apron.  "But  I  shall  improve  as 
I  go  along." 

Having  taken  off  my  apron  I  handed  it  to  her. 

"What  is  this  for?"  she  demanded,  staring  at  the  apron. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  this?" 

"It  means  that  you  are  to  send  me  to  the  nearest  rail- 
road-station, and  at  once." 

Then  I  told  her  what*  I  thought  of  her,  and  my  words 
came  straight  from  the  shoulder.  I  reminded  her  that  she 
had  hired  me  as  a  gentlewoman,  yet  she  had  not  provided 
me  a  place  in  which  I  could  so  much  as  bathe  in  privacy. 
If  she  had  not  sufficient  money  to  pay  decent  wages  to 
workers,  I  asked  why  she  had  bought  that  additional  ten 
acres  of  land.  I  reminded  her  that  she  already  had  more 
land  than  could  be  used  by  the  class  of  children  cared  for  at 
Rodman  Hall. 

Furthermore,  I  told  her  that  if  ever  I  saw  her  advertise- 
ment, similar  to  the  one  by  which  she  had  trapped  the  pro- 
fessor's widow  and  myself,  I  would  go  to  see  the  owner  of 
the  newspaper  in  which  it  appeared.  I  would  show  the 
schedule  of  work  she  had  mapped  out  for  me,  tell  him  of 
other  women  whom  she  had  decoyed,  and  ask  why  he  pub- 
lished the  advertisements  of  such  fakers. 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Howard  did  everything  except 
offer  bodily  violence  to  induce  me  to  return  that  schedule. 

On  returning  to  New  York  I  took  the  schedule  at  once 
to  a  reputable  agency  for  domestic  servants.  Pretending 
that  I  was  acting  in  behalf  of  a  friend  who  lived  in  the 
country,  I  showed  the  two  typed  pages  to  the  manager, 
and  asked  for  a  maid  who  would  do  that  work  for  fifteen 
dollars  a  month.  The  manager  glared  at  me.  She  assured 


124   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

me  that  it  was  impossible  for  one  woman  to  do  so  much 
work  even  in  a  twenty-four-hour  day.  She  didn't  exactly 
show  me  the  door,  but  the  manner  in  which  she  looked  at 
it  was  pointed. 

At  the  next  agency  the  manager  was  more  polite.  She 
advised  me  to  induce  my  friend  to  get  three  girls.  Even 
then,  she  explained,  my  friend  would  have  to  pay  the  girls 
at  least  twenty  dollars  a  month  each. 

"We  don't  have  as  many  greenhorns  coming  over  as  we 
used  to,"  she  told  me,  "and  even  those  we  do  have  demand 
more  money.  Twenty  dollars  a  month  is  very  little  these 
days  even  for  the  poorest  servant." 

The  woman  in  charge  at  the  next  agency  brusquely  in- 
formed me  that  she  had  too  much  respect  for  herself  to 
offer  such  a  job  to  any  girl,  even  the  most  ignorant  immi- 
grant. My  friend,  she  added,  should  be  forced  to  do  all 
that  work  herself,  then  she  might  understand  why  she 
couldn't  get  a  girl. 

At  the  fifth  agency  I  was  treated  as  a  half-witted  creature 
to  whom  the  manager  was  forced  by  her  own  self-respect 
to  be  polite.  Evidently,  she  told  me,  I  had  no  experience 
with  housework.  Otherwise  I  would  know  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  a  human  being,  man  or  woman,  however 
skilled,  to  accomplish  so  much  work  in  one  day.  If  my 
friend's  home  was  near  a  popular  beach,  or  offered  an  equally 
desirable  summer  attraction,  she  might  get  me  two  women. 
Wages?  Thirty-five  dollars  a  month  each,  perhaps  more. 

Determined  to  give  Mrs.  Howard  a  square  deal  I  called 
on  my  Y.  W.  C.  A.  friend.  After  reading  the  advertise- 
ment and  the  schedule,  she  computed  the  beds  in  the  four 
dormitories  and  their  sleeping-porches. 

' '  Forty-two  beds ! ' '  she  exclaimed.  ' '  Why  making  forty- 
two  beds  is  a  day's  work,  a  hard  day's  work  in  itself.  A 
hotel  chambermaid  seldom  has  more  than  twenty-five 
beds." 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME       125 

When  I  explained  that  most  of  these  beds  were  always 
wet,  many  of  them  always  soiled,  her  surprise  became 
indignation. 

"That  woman  is  worse  than  any  slave-driver!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Oh,  yes,  she  is!  The  idea  of  expecting  any 
woman  to  care  for  forty-two  such  beds,  carry  the  bed- 
clothes and  mattresses  down  two  flights  of  stairs  and  hang 
them  on  lines  in  the  back  yard  to  dry.  When  they  do  dry 
you  must  cart  them  back  again  and  make  the  beds.  Some- 
thing should  be  done  to  that  woman.  I  wish  the  law  could 
reach  her." 

Again  turning  to  the  schedule  she  read  to  the  end  of  the 
two  closely  typed  legal-cap  pages. 

"Besides  caring  for  the  dormitories  and  sleeping-porches, 
you  had  to  sweep  and  dust  two  piazzas,  the  parlor,  recep- 
tion-room, two  schoolrooms,  and  two  flights  of  stairs — 
beating  all  rugs  in  the  back  yard  once  a  week,  or  as  often 
as  necessary."  She  glanced  up  at  me  and  shook  her  head, 
then  went  back  to  the  typed  sheets.  "You  were  to  help 
serve  all  three  meals,  wash  the  dinner  dishes,  and  keep  the 
pantries  in  order." 

"In  short,  I  was  to  have  been  parlor-maid,  dining-room 
girl,  pantry-maid,  and  chambermaid — a  sort  of  four  in  one 
person,"  I  agreed.  "If  only  I  had ' 

"This  is  no  laughing  matter,"  she  reproved  me  sharply. 
"The  reduced  gentlewoman  is  one  of  the  most  serious 
problems  the  Association  has  to  deal  with — how  to  help 
her  help  herself,  how  to  make  her  decently  self-supporting. 
Ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  such  women  are  as 
ignorant  and  trustful  as  a  baby.  That  is  why  Mrs.  How- 
ard's advertisements  are  so  dangerous.  You  must  give 
that  woman  a  lesson  that  she  will  not  forget  soon." 

Surprised  by  her  vehemence,  I  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  must  do  it,"  she  repeated,  her  tone  and  manner 
both  serious. 


126   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"But  how?"  I  exclaimed,  then  reminded  her:  "I  threat- 
ened to  expose  her  to  the  newspaper  if  ever  I  saw  her  ad- 
vertisement again.  That's  all  I  can  do." 

"No,  it  is  not,"  she  contradicted.  "You  can  make  her 
reimburse  you  for  every  penny  that  trip  cost  you — your 
packing  and  moving  your  things  to  storage.  Every  penny. 
That's  the  only  way  to  touch  a  woman  of  her  type — through 
her  pocketbook.  She  has  no  heart.  She  doesn't  care  a 
rap  for  those  children  except  as  a  means  unto  her  end — 
to  glorify  herself.  She  intends  that  institution  to  be  her 
monument.  She  will  wring  or  squeeze  every  dollar  she  can 
from  every  person  she  can  in  order  to  add  one  stone  to  that 
monument.  You  can  help  the  Association — we  are  always 
coming  up  against  such  women.  It  is  your  duty  to  do  all 
you  can  to  prevent  other  women  falling  into  her  trap." 

Because  I  could  not  agree  with  my  friend — her  estimate 
of  Mrs.  Howard — I  promised  to  sleep  on  her  advice  and  let 
her  know  what  I  finally  decided  to  do. 

Mrs.  Howard,  as  I  then  saw  her,  had  a  single-track  mind 
— a  disease  more  common  than  is  generally  admitted. 
Absorbed  by  Rodman  Hall  she  had  thought  of  no  other 
subject,  had  no  other  interest  for  so  long  that  her  mind 
had  got  into  a  groove,  just  one  groove.  She  could  not  see, 
much  less  realize,  anything  outside  that  groove,  neither  to 
the  side  of  it,  above  it,  nor  below  it.  The  interest  of  Rod- 
man Hall  and  that  alone  was  considered. 

When,  after  sleeping  on  it  for  several  nights,  I  finally 
decided  to  follow  my  friend's  advice,  I  felt  sure  Mrs.  Howard 
would  refuse  to  reimburse  me.  I  itemized  the  expenditures. 
She  would  write  me  that  she  was  in  no  way  responsible  for 
my  having  to  buy  three  boxes,  nor  for  my  paying  a  twenty- 
five-cent  tip.  The  amount  I  had  paid  for  the  cartage  and 
storage  of  my  goods,  she  would  insist,  I  felt  sure,  was  none 
of  her  business.  She  would  protest  that  her  advertisement 
was  in  good  faith,  and  as  she  had  already  paid  the  wages 


RODMAN  HALL:  CHILDREN'S  HOME      127 

due  me  for  two  days,  and  my  railroad  ticket  to  and  from 
New  York,  she  would  pay  me  no  more. 

Tuesday  morning,  my  second  day  in  the  loan  depart- 
ment of  the  T.  Z.  Trust  Company,  as  I  was  leaving  the 
rooming-house  I  met  the  postman  on  the  steps,  and  he 
handed  me  Mrs.  Howard's  reply.  That  reply  now  lies 
before  me.  It  is  written  in  long  hand  on  the  official  paper 
of  Rodman  Hall.  In  the  copy  that  follows  only  the  proper 
names  have  been  changed. 

"Rodman  Hall,  June  25,  1917. 
"DEAR  Miss  PORTER: 

"I  agree  with  you  that  I  made  a  mistake  in  trying  to 
give  this  work  to  a  gentlewoman.  It  will  never  turn  out 
as  I  had  hoped  it  would.  Almost  every  day  some  one 
comes  to  me  for  help  and  the  only  work  I  have  I  offer. 

"Dormitory  work  and  dish-washing,  it  is  true,  is  not 
what  gentlewomen  would  select  as  a  general  thing  to  do, 
yet  if  one  should  decide  to  do  it  rather  than  be  out  of  work, 
I  feel  sure  the  duties  would  be  well  performed. 

"I  am  writing  Mrs.  Jones,  the  assistant  secretary,  to 
send  you  a  check  for  $4.37. 

Yours  truly, 

W.  C.  HOWARD." 

On  the  Subway  on  my  way  down  town  again  I  gave  this 
letter  its  first  reading.  It  not  only  greatly  surprised  me, 
but  it  greatly  puzzled  me.  On  rereading  it  an  exclamation 
burst  from  my  lips. 

Any  one  reading  her  letter  would  imagine  that  I  had 
complained  of  the  character  of  the  work  assigned  me — 
dormitory  work  and  dish-washing.  Also,  that  out  of  work 
I  had  appealed  to  her  for  help.  If  she  received  appeals  for 
help  "almost  every  day,"  why  was  it  necessary  for  her  to 
advertise  in  the  help-wanted  columns  ?  During  that  winter 


128      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

and  spring  Alice  and  I  had  noticed  her  advertisement  fully 
one  dozen  times. 

Some  day  I  shall  frame  this  letter  of  Mrs.  Howard's 
together  with  her  advertisement  and  the  two  typewritten 
pages  of  legal  foolscap,  the  schedule  of  work. 


CHAPTER  X 
TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS 

WHEN  discussing  with  my  Y.  W.  C.  A.  friend  my  experi- 
ences at  the  Rodman  Hall,  she  said: 

"Why  don't  you  give  our  employment  department  a 
trial?  I  believe  you'd  have  a  wider  choice.  Besides,  you 
might  help  the  Association  a  lot — reporting  conditions  at 
the  places  where  you  work." 

Semiphilanthropy  again !  was  my  mental  exclamation. 
The  department  store  and  Sea  Foam  were  the  property  of 
philanthropists.  The  overdressed  woman  and  her  "  place- 
ment bureau"  was  a  semiphilanthropic  annex.  St.  Rose 
and  Rodman  Hall !  Now  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  employment 
department.  Semiphilanthropies ! 

With  a  sigh  so  sincere  that  it  seemed  hypocrisy  to  sup- 
press it,  I  promised  to  be  on  time  the  following  morning, 
go  up  to  the  seventh  floor  and  register.  I  took  my  leave 
and  walked  dejectedly  back  to  the  rooming-house.  There 
was  no  hope  in  me;  my  enthusiasm  had  passed  away  as  a 
thing  that  had  never  been.  I  was  to  have  my  faith  in 
human  nature  tried  by  another  Semiphilanthropy. 

True  to  my  word  but  expecting  the  worst,  I  arrived,  was 
whisked  to  the  seventh  floor  by  the  elevator,  registered,  and 
promptly  received  two  shocks.  First,  not  being  charged 
a  fee.  Second,  being  assured  that  I  was  not  an  unskilled 
worker.  Far  from  it.  The  woman  at  the  desk  named  so 
many  lines  of  work  in  which  I  would  be  received  with  open 
arms  that  it  made  me  dizzy — banks,  brokers,  insurance, 
real  estate,  and  a  half-hundred  more. 

129 


130   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Then  she  asked  which  of  the  fields  she  had  named  es- 
pecially appealed  to  me. 

"Well,"  I  hesitated,  forced  by  her  eyes  and  her  business- 
like manner  to  give  some  sort  of  an  answer,  "since  you 
think  I  would  fit  in  so  many  holes,  suppose  you  let  me  try 
one  in  which  I  will  release  a  man  for  service." 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"That's  not  much  of  a  choice.  In  every  vacancy  I  have 
named  you  will  be  releasing  a  man — one  who  has  enlisted 
or  been  drafted.  Under  normal  conditions  none  of  these 
people  would  come  to  us.  They'd  apply  to  the  Y.  M.,  or 
some  agency  making  a  specialty  of  educated  men.  Take 
the  T.  Z.  Trust  Company,  one  of  the  largest  banking  insti- 
tutions hi  the  country.  If  you  go  there  you'll  be  the  first 
woman;  heretofore  they  have  employed  men  exclusively. 

"But  what  could  I  do  in  a  bank?  I've  never  been  be- 
yond the  drawing  and  deposit  windows.  That  could  not 
be  called  bank  training." 

"Bank  employees  are  not  produced  by  training  but  by 
experience.  Suppose  you  go  down  and  let  them  judge  of 
your  fitness.  Besides  bookkeepers  and  stenographers  they 
have  openings  for  intelligent,  educated  women.  I'll  give 
you  a  card." 

And  give  me  a  card  she  did.  Within  an  hour  after  enter- 
ing the  employment  rooms,  without  having  spent  a  cent, 
I  was  on  my  way  to  see  the  treasurer  of  one  of  the  largest 
banking  institutions  in  the  Wall  Street  district.  Mr. 
Morton,  the  treasurer,  being  in  the  loan  department,  I 
was  given  a  chair  beside  his  desk,  and  asked  to  wait. 

"I  dreamed  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls,"  I  hummed  to  myself. 

If  I  should  be  employed  here  I  would  certainly  work  in 
marble  halls.  The  bank,  as  far  as  I  could  see  on  that 
floor,  was  beautiful  marble  and  bronze.  Wonderful !  The 
huge  flat-top  desk  beside  me  and  the  chair  in  which  I  sat 
were  both  exquisitely  grained  mahogany.  And  there  were 


TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS    131 

five  other  desks  and  numerous  chairs  just  like  them  on  the 
officers'  floor — at  the  front  of  the  bank  and  raised  one  step 
above  the  general  floor  level. 

While  I  was  busy  studying  the  faces  of  the  men  at  the 
other  desk  Mr.  Morton  arrived  without  my  being  con- 
scious of  his  approach.  He  spoke  to  me,  and  looking  up 
I  beheld  a  long,  tall  man,  with  becomingly  gray  hair.  Now 
I  like  gray  hair,  and  I  also  like  eyes  that  meet  mine  calmly 
and  as  a  matter  of  course  when  the  owner  is  talking  to  me. 
There's  a  difference  in  eyes — eyes  that  play  hop,  skip,  and 
jump,  trying  to  see  everything,  look  everywhere  except 
into  the  eyes  of  the  person  addressing  them;  eyes  that 
stare  at  you  as  though  wishing  to  jump  out  and  snatch 
your  eyes  bald-headed,  and  eyes  that  have  a  predisposition 
to  study  the  toes  of  shoes  and  the  figures  on  the  carpet, 
darting  up  once  in  a  while  to  catch  you  off  your  guard,  and 
perhaps  murder  you. 

My  interview  with  Mr.  Morton  was  encouraging.  He 
felt  sure,  he  said,  that  if  women  of  my  "attainments"  would 
offer  then*  services  they  would  be  gladly  accepted  by  the 
banks  and  similar  corporations.  As  he  saw  conditions,  if 
the  war  continued  as  long  as  persons  in  a  position  to  know 
appeared  to  expect  it  would,  half  of  the  work  of  the  Trust 
Company  would  have  to  be  done  by  women. 

"Everybody  don't  agree  with  me,"  he  added.  "Some 
think  it  unnecessary,  my  employing  women  here.  Some  of 
our  men  enlisted,  many  were  called  in  the  first  draft,  others 
will  be  caught  in  later  drafts.  The  situation  is  serious,  and 
I  want  to  meet  it." 

On  learning  that  he  was  a  Princeton  graduate,  I  decided 
to  give  him  a  trial  as  a  boss.  Fortunately  for  me,  he  de- 
cided to  give  me  a  trial.  After  taking  the  names  of  my 
references  and  some  more  general  conversation,  he  asked 
me  to  report  for  duty  the  next  Monday  morning. 

On  my  return  trip  up-town  I  took  stock  of  myself.    Pat 


132   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

myself  on  the  back  as  I  might,  I  was  forced  to  admit  that 
my  clothes,  in  their  present  condition,  were  not  suited  to  a 
dweller  in  marble  halls.  Determined  not  to  take  my 
trunks  from  storage,  I  was  even  more  set  on  continuing 
to  live  on  my  wages.  What  to  do  I  did  not  know. 

Being  Friday  I  resolved  to  loaf  until  Monday.  Leaving 
the  surface  car  at  Store  Beautiful,  I  proceeded  to  carry  out 
my  resolve — loaf.  Perhaps  while  doing  so  a  solution  of 
my  problem  might  develop.  But  an  hour  spent  in  roam- 
ing through  the  most  beautiful  department  store  in  the 
world  only  added  to  my  conviction — the  unfitness  of  my 
clothes  to  marble  halls. 

When  I  again  faced  the  world  on  Broadway  I  was  still 
struggling  over  the  puzzle — how  to  get  a  dress  suited  to 
marble  halls.  Wool  was  prohibitive  not  only  hi  price  but 
because  it  was  needed  by  our  soldiers  and  the  destitute 
Belgians;  silk  was  far  above  the  contents  of  my  pocket- 
book,  and  cotton  was  winging  its  way  upward  so  fast  that 
I  might  be  forced  to  join  an  aviation  corps  to  get  enough 
of  it  for  a  frock. 

There  was  Fourteenth  Street  to  be  investigated — Four- 
teenth Street  has  solved  many  financial  problems.  So  in 
and  out  of  that  wide  street  I  nosed,  like  a  pointer  dog  hunt- 
ing for  game  ardently  wished  for  though  unscented.  Finally 
down  in  a  basement  I  came  to  a  point — I  actually  pointed. 

"That  piece  of  cloth  over  there — what's  the  price  of 
it?" 

The  saleswoman  looked  at  the  cloth,  then  back  at  me. 
Her  expression  was  of  a  person  who  had  answered  the 
same  question  many  times. 

"There's  only  five  yards,  and  we  can't  get  any  more  like 
it,"  she  told  me. 

"What's  the  price?" 

"Oh,  it's  cheap  enough,"  and  taking  the  cloth  from  the 
shelf  she  spread  it  before  me  on  the  counter.  "One  dollar 


TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS    133 

for  the  piece.  We  could  get  three  times  the  money  if  there 
was  enough  of  it  for  anything.  It's  only  twenty-seven 
inches  wide." 

'Til  take  it." 

On  leaving  that  counter  with  the  parcel  in  my  hand  I 
hurried  to  the  pattern  department  and  there  spent  twenty 
cents.  Fortunately,  among  the  riffraff  left  behind  by  Alice 
and  the  hat-trimmer  there  were  remnants  of  several  spools 
of  white  cotton  thread  and  a  few  inches  of  dark-brown 
cotton  poplin. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  trudged  up  to  the  Y.  W.  C.  A. 
with  all  the  spool  cotton  and  the  scrap  of  poplin  in  my 
bag,  and  a  neatly  folded  parcel  under  my  arm.  When  I 
quitted  the  sewing-room  late  that  afternoon  I  carried  with 
me  a  dress  in  which  at  that  time  it  would  have  been  equally 
appropriate  to  visit  a  tenement  or  dine  in  a  palace.  Be- 
sides being  patriotic  it  was  also  the  height  of  fashion — cotton 
khaki,  severely  tailored,  with  a  long  tie  of  dark  brown. 

Up  to  that  time,  aside  from  room-rent  and  food,  my 
expenditures  had  been  limited  to  one  pair  of  shoes,  seven 
dollars;  one  union  suit,  fifty-nine  cents;  one  picture  show, 
ten  cents;  two  evenings  at  church,  twenty-five  cents  in  the 
plate  each  time.  I  admit  that  such  an  existence  of  grind- 
ing toil  is  only  possible  to  a  girl  of  character.  Polly  Pres- 
ton is  a  girl  of  character.  So  also  were  a  large  majority  of 
those  with  whom  I  had  worked.  Had  such  not  been  the 
case  millions  instead  of  thousands  would  have  fallen  by 
the  wayside,  succumbing  to  the  conditions  amid  which 
women  were  forced  to  work  before  the  entrance  of  our  coun- 
try into  the  World  War.  At  that  time  the  life  of  a  work- 
ing woman  was  of  no  more  value  than  that  of  a  dog.  Yet 
had  our  working  women  ceased  to  be  virtuous  our  country 
must  have  perished. 

Now  I  have  come  to  one  of  the  two  most  disagreeable 
experiences  of  my  four  years.  Perhaps  the  hardest  for 


134      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

me  to  describe  with  equal  justice  to  myself  and  the  people 
among  whom  I  worked. 

On  reporting  at  the  T.  Z.  Trust  Company  at  the  time  ap- 
pointed by  Mr.  Morton,  I  learned  that  though  he  had  not 
arrived  he  had  instructed  his  secretary  how  to  dispose  of 
me.  When  she  told  me  that  Mr.  Morton  had  decided  to 
place  me  in  the  loan  department,  it  was  evident  that  she 
expected  me  to  be  greatly  pleased.  I  did  my  best  not  to 
disappoint  her.  But  to  tell  the  truth  the  name  meant  as 
much  to  me  as  an  inscription  over  a  Hindu  temple.  And 
I  could  have  conducted  services  in  a  Hindu  temple  as  in- 
telligently as  I  did  the  work  in  that  department  during  my 
first  few  days. 

After  passing  through  several  gates  opening  into  private 
compartments  fenced  off  by  heavy  bronze  wire  netting  we 
entered  the  loan  department.  Once  there  I  saw  that  it 
was  at  the  rear  of  the  bank,  and  that  it  had  two  windows 
similar  to  those  of  a  bank  for  the  use  of  customers.  In 
the  way  of  furniture  there  were  two  flat-topped  desks,  a 
large  one  and  a  smaller,  two  bookkeeper's  desks,  a  large 
iron  safe  on  wheels,  a  ticker  and  its  basket,  and  several 
chairs. 

The  loan  clerk,  Mr.  Hartley,  and  his  first  assistant, 
Dennis  Hoolagan,  sat  facing  each  other  at  the  larger  of  the 
two  flat-topped  desks.  At  the  smaller  flat  top,  which  was 
in  one  corner,  sat  a  young  man,  Tom  Turpin,  tall,  blond, 
and  carefully  groomed.  In  an  adjoining  compartment,  at 
a  large  table,  was  a  still  younger  man,  Dick  Ware.  And  in 
yet  another  adjoining  compartment  was  the  stenographer 
and  typist,  whose  name  no  one  considered  worth  mention- 
ing. Mr.  Hartley  and  Dick  Ware,  I  soon  learned,  were  of 
American  stock.  Hoolagan  was  a  son  of  Irish  immigrants, 
while  Turpin' s  parents  had  come  as  immigrants  from  that 
country  from  which  Americans  get  their  coachmen  and 
butlers,  but  never  their  cooks. 


TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS    135 

I  have  already  stated  how  I  chanced  to  go  to  the  T.  Z. 
Trust  Company.  When  I  proposed  to  release  a  man  for 
service  I  did  not  for  a  moment  imagine  that  I  was  doing 
anything  remarkable.  Indeed  it  seemed  a  very  small  thing 
to  offer  my  country  my  untrained  services  since  all  my 
men-folks  had  enlisted  and  were  prepared  to  give  their 
lives.  Because  the  press  and  men  and  women  in  public 
life  were  urging  American  women  to  follow  the  example  of 
the  women  of  England  and  France,  step  into  the  working 
world  and  release  men  for  service  at  the  front,  I  did  it. 
While  I  did  not  expect  to  be  commended,  neither  did  I  so 
much  as  dream  that  any  fellow  employee  would  do  his  best 
to  render  my  position  unpleasant. 

That  is  exactly  what  Tom  Turpin  and  Dennis  Hoolagan 
did  attempt — to  render  my  position  in  the  loan  department 
of  the  T.  Z.  Trust  Company  intolerable. 

On  that  first  day,  the  ceremony  of  introductions  over, 
Mr.  Hartley  explained  that  I  was  to  learn  to  do  the  work 
done  by  Dick  Ware  and  Tom  Turpin.  These  young  men, 
Mr.  Hartley  informed  me,  had  enlisted,  and  might  be 
called  at  any  time.  Hoolagan  had  been  drafted,  but  be- 
cause of  a  physical  defect  would  not  be  taken  by  the  first 
draft.  He,  Mr.  Hartley,  then  placed  a  chair  for  me  at 
Turpin's  elbow.  I  was  to  begin  by  learning  Turpin's  work. 

Never  in  my  life  had  I  felt  even  a  slight  interest  in  stocks 
and  bonds.  Now  I  found  myself  sitting  cheek  by  jowl 
with  a  ticker.  My  chair  was  so  close  to  the  thing  that  the 
tape  got  the  habit  of  running  down  my  collar  instead  of 
into  the  basket.  Any  one  can  judge  how  much  at  home 
I  felt. 

Even  that  first  day  I  had  a  feeling  of  discomfort  that  I 
had  never  experienced  in  any  of  my  former  positions.  My 
memory  of  the  forenoon  of  that,  my  first  day,  is  of  a  blurred 
puzzle — there  were  so  many  things  the  meaning  of  which 
I  had  not  the  faintest  conception.  On  my  return  from 


136   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

lunch  I  found  only  Turpin  and  Hoolagan  in  the  office. 
My  chair  was  nowhere  in  sight.  I  placed  my  hand  on  Mr. 
Hartley's  chair. 

"Better  not  do  that!"  Turpin  cried.  "Hart  don't  like 
anybody  to  sit  in  his  chair." 

"Who  has  moved  my  chair?"  I  questioned.  No  answer. 
Both  men  appeared  to  be  too  engrossed  by  their  work  to 
hear.  After  a  few  minutes,  puzzled  but  thinking  perhaps 
it  was  intended  as  a  joke,  I  asked:  "Where  am  I  to  sit?" 

Another  wait. 

"There's  a  stool,"  Turpin  told  me,  pointing  over  his 
shoulder  to  a  high  stool  at  the  bookkeeper's  desk  hi  the 
far  corner. 

The  stool  was  not  an  enticing  seat,  but  not  dreaming 
that  any  offense  was  intended  I  never  dreamed  of  taking 
offense.  Going  over  I  perched  myself  on  the  stool  and 
busied  myself  trying  to  learn  how  to  manipulate  a  little 
machine  used  to  make  out  checks.  This  moving  of  my 
chair  was  repeated  the  following  day  along  with  numerous 
other  acts  of  petty  spite.  Having  always  been  cordially 
received  I  did  not  at  all  understand. 

It  took  days  for  me  even  to  suspect  that  I  was  not  a 
welcomed  addition  to  the  department.  Turpin  was,  of 
course,  the  man  whose  acts  aroused  this  suspicion.  His 
method  of  instructing  me  had,  from  the  first,  seemed  to 
me  peculiar.  When  pretending  to  show  me  how  to  make 
out  the  reports  sent  from  the  loan  department  to  various 
officers  of  the  bank,  he  would  be  laboriously  adding  or 
subtracting  a  few  figures,  then  suddenly  he  would  throw 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  heave  a  sigh  of  extreme  exaspera- 
tion, and  shout  at  me. 

Though  this  puzzled  and  embarrassed  me  from  the  first, 
I  did  not  for  a  moment  think  it  was  done  with  malice 
aforethought.  Being  repeated  so  often,  I  finally  began 
to  question  myself — why  should  I,  when  not  allowed  to 
take  any  part  in  the  work  in  hand,  be  howled  at  ?  Now, 


TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS    137 

I  am  not  quite  a  fool.  It  did  not  require  a  great  length  of 
time  for  me  to  discover  that  Turpin's  fits  of  exasperation 
and  loud  talking  only  occurred  when  Mr.  Morton,  Mr. 
Hartley,  or  some  one  of  the  vice-presidents  of  the  bank 
was  in  hearing. 

On  my  inquiring,  quite  casually,  one  day  of  Turpin  what 
he  thought  of  Mr.  Morton's  idea  of  putting  women  in  the 
positions  left  vacant  by  men  going  to  the  front,  I  got  what 
he  would  have  called  "a  line"  on  his  behavior. 

"We  all  know  that  business  has  got  to  make  out  with 
women  somehow,"  he  replied  patronizingly.  "This  bank 
along  with  the  rest.  What  we  complain  about  is  Mor- 
ton's giving  us  an  untrained  woman.  You've  never  had 
any  office  training." 

"None,"  I  agreed.  "I  told  Mr.  Morton  I  had  had  no 
experience  in  office  work.  He  thought  that  being  a  col- 
lege woman 

"College ! "  he  exclaimed  contemptuously.  "What's  that 
good  for?  I'd  have  gone  to  college  if  I  hadn't  known  it 
would  be  throwing  away  tune.  As  soon  as  I  finished  the 
high  school— graduated,  of  course — I  came  here." 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  the  loan  department?"  I 
inquired. 

"More  than  two  years.  You  can  take  it  from  me  it's 
a  man-size  job.  No  woman,  much  less  an  untrained 
woman,  can  swing  it." 

"The  work  is  very  hard,"  I  agreed,  with  a  deep  and  in- 
sincere sigh.  I  thought  then,  and  I  have  never  changed 
my  opinion,  that  a  conscientious  girl  of  sixteen  could  do 
all  that  I  ever  saw  him  attempt. 

"You  bet  it's  hard !"  he  agreed  with  a  beaming  smile. 

"The  bank  will  miss  you,"  I  assured  him,  doing  my  best 
to  make  my  eyes  look  round  and  innocent. 

"Miss  me!"  he  cried  with  enthusiasm.  "They'll  know 
when  I'm  gone;  you  see  if  they  don't." 

From  then  on  I  followed  that  young  man's  lead  so  sue- 


138      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

cessfully  that  I  am  convinced  that  the  loan  clerk  was  amazed 
to  find  after  Turpin  and  Ware  left  that  I  actually  knew 
that  two  and  two  made  four.  Turpin  taught  me  nothing. 
He  would  not  even  tell  me  how  he  got  the  figures  for  making 
out  the  daily  report  of  business  done  in  the  department. 

To  Mr.  Morton,  to  Mr.  Hartley,  and  two  courteous  men 
in  the  bookkeeping  department  I  owe  all  that  I  know  about 
the  inside  of  a  bank  and  the  world  of  finance.  Mr.  Morton 
explained  the  how  and  why  of  a  bank  balance.  By  teach- 
ing me  to  read  the  ticker-tape  he  interested  me  in  stocks 
and  bonds,  and  the  part  played  by  the  Wall  Street  market 
in  the  business  of  the  country. 

The  two  bookkeepers  showed  me  from  which  of  their 
books  Turpin  got  the  figures  about  which  he  had  made 
such  a  mystery.  It  was  as  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log — making 
out  the  reports  over  which  Turpin  used  to  sweat  and  swear 
— once  I  had  learned  from  which  books  to  get  the  figures. 
A  ten-year-old  child  could  have  done  all  the  subtracting 
and  adding — that's  all  it  was,  simple  addition  and  sub- 
traction. A  man-size  job ! 

To  Mr.  Hartley  I  am  indebted  for  much  more.  He  not 
only  taught  me  enough  to  enable  me  to  swing  my  job,  but 
he  revolutionized  my  ideas  of  men — men  in  general,  business 
men  in  particular. 

Strange  as  it  now  seems,  before  going  to  work  in  the  T.  Z. 
I  had  believed  that  every  business  man  spent  the  best  part 
of  his  time  while  down-town  loafing — in  a  gentlemanly 
way,  of  course,  but  loafing.  Such  ideas  came  to  me  direct 
from  the  wives  of  the  men.  Among  my  circle  of  intimate 
acquaintances  there  are  about  fifty  young  married  women. 
The  husband  of  each  of  these  women  works  to  support  his 
family.  Of  the  whole  fifty  I  do  not  believe  there  is  one 
who  does  not  suspect  her  husband  of  loafing,  or  having  a 
sort  of  good  tune  generally  during  the  period  known  as 
business  hours. 


TRUSTED  WITH  BILLIONS,  PAID  IN  MILLS    139 

Let  any  one  of  them  wish  to  go  out  of  an  evening  and  she 
proceeds  to  make  her  arrangements — always  including 
her  husband.  If  he  demurs,  expresses  a  wish  to  remain  at 
home,  she  reminds  him  that  it  has  been  a  week,  or  perhaps 
as  much  as  a  month,  since  they  have  spent  an  evening  away 
from  home.  It's  all  very  well  for  him,  going  to  his  office 
every  day,  but  how  about  her,  looking  after  the  children 
and  directing  the  servants?  She  must  have  some  sort  of 
recreation,  take  some  rest.  It  is  a  one-sided  argument,  and 
always  ends  the  same  way — the  husband  takes  his  wife  out. 

This  is  not  selfishness  on  the  part  of  these  women.  It 
is  because  they  really  do  not  know  that  business  is 
another  name  for  work,  hard  work.  I  did  not  know  until 
I  went  to  the  T.  Z.  And  how  hard  those  men  did  work! 
All  day  long,  and  when  stocks  went  off,  far  into  the  night. 
Never  a  murmur,  never  a  complaint.  The  hardest  worker 
of  them  all  was  Mr.  Hartley. 

For  a  short  time  after  Turpin  departed  I  enjoyed  my 
work  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  a  great  nervous  strain, 
and  a  greater  tax  on  my  eyes — continually  reading  such 
small  figures  under  electric  lights.  Then  Mr.  Hartley  went 
off  for  a  short  vacation,  and  Hoolagan  got  his  chance  to 
fight  a  woman,  who  hi  his  stupidity  he  imagined  had  her 
"eye"  on  his  job. 

His  first  method  was  "correcting"  my  daily  report  of 
the  business  transacted  in  our  department  and  those  of 
our  branches.  It  was, my  duty  to  make  out  this  report, 
get  it  signed  by  the  loan  clerk,  and  into  the  hands  of  a  cer- 
tain vice-president  not  later  than  eleven  o'clock.  When 
Mr.  Hartley  was  in  the  office  I  would  place  the  report  on 
his  desk;  he  would  glance  over  it,  make  sure  it  was  correct, 
and  then  sign  it.  I  would  then  hand  it  to  a  messenger  who 
would  deliver  it  to  the  vice-president.  It  had  become  such 
a  matter  of  routine  that  I  used  to  ring  for  the  messenger 
on  my  way  to  Mr.  Hartley's  desk. 


140      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Hoolagan  stopped  that.  There  was  one  day  when  he 
spoiled  ten  copies  of  the  same  report,  pretending  that  my 
figures  needed  correction.  This  might  have  continued 
until  Mr.  Hartley's  return  had  it  not  been  that  the  book- 
keepers discovered  so  many  mistakes  in  Hoolagan 's  figures- 
that  they  laughed  him  out  of  court. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  the  man  did  not  know 
how  to  add  or  subtract  correctly.  Having  always  had 
kind,  hard-working  Mr.  Hartley  to  go  over  his  figures  and 
straighten  out  errors,  he  did  not  have  sufficient  industry 
to  learn — that  is,  if  it  was  only  industry  that  he  needed. 

The  day  he  had  a  half-million-dollar  loan  to  Harris 
Marson  hopping  and  skipping  over  five  columns  of  the  day- 
book, I  decided  that  he  was  a  mental  defective  and  could 
not  help  making  mistakes.  I  made  out  my  report,  the 
bookkeepers  balanced  their  accounts.  Then  lo,  and  be- 
hold !  the  next  tune  we  had  occasion  to  consult  the  day- 
book that  half-million  loan  had  been  transferred  to  another 
column.  Of  course  our  figures  had  to  be  changed.  When 
this  happened  four  tunes  the  bookkeepers  raised  a  howl. 

"For  God's  sake,  Dennis!  What  is  that  half-million? 
Where  does  it  belong?" 

Somebody  in  our  department  put  on  their  thinking-cap 
and  recalled  that  they  had  heard  Hoolagan  talking  at  the 
window  with  a  Harris  Marson  messenger  about  a  street  call. 
Even  though  that  incident  had  escaped  Hoolagan,  the  rate 
of  interest  and  a  half-dozen  other  features  of  the  loan 
should  have  told  a  man  familiar  with  the  T.  Z.  the  char- 
acter of  that  loan. 

After  that  he  stopped  "correcting"  my  reports,  and  took 
to  hiding  the  day-book.  When  the  head  of  the  bookkeep- 
ing department  put  a  stop  to  that  performance  Hoolagan 
proceeded  to  hide  himself.  Just  let  him  see  me  coming 
toward  his  desk  with  a  report  and  Hoolagan  was  up 
and  away.  If  he  possibly  could  manage  it,  he  remained 


141 

away  until  a  messenger  sent  from  the  front  would  chase 
him  down  and  make  him  sign  my  report.  In  a  business 
less  vital  to  our  country  and  humanity  Hoolagan  would  have 
been  a  joke.  The  T.  Z.  was  an  important  factor  in  world 
finance. 

The  way  all  other  men  in  that  bank  worked !  I  can  never 
forget  it.  And  the  little  they  got  out  of  it !  The  average 
American  business  man,  for  all  his  work  and  worry,  gets  a 
home  in  which  to  sleep,  spend  his  Sundays  and  an  occa- 
sional holiday.  In  spite  of  this — perhaps  because  of  it — 
he  is  the  most  idealistic  of  God's  creatures. 

Behind  all  his  work,  be  it  mad  hustle  or  deadly  grind, 
there  is  a  woman — his  woman,  the  one  woman  in  all  the 
world  to  him.  It  is  of  her  he  thinks,  it  is  for  her  he  slaves. 
His  adored  woman,  that  girl  of  his  dreams  must  have,  shall 
have  everything  that  he  can  win  for  her  at  any  cost  to 
himself.  I  know,  because  at  the  T.  Z.  I  studied  the  Ameri- 
can business  man  in  his  natural  habitat — I  talked  with 
him,  rubbed  elbows  with  him  while  he  was  hustling  and 
when  he  was  grinding  his  hardest. 

How  often  did  I  see  a  man,  when  called  to  the  telephone, 
pick  up  the  receiver  with  indifference.  Then  on  hearing 
the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  his  face  would  brighten 
until  it  beamed,  and  his  voice  would  change  from  the  re- 
sentful tone  of  having  his  work  interrupted  to  a  loving 
purr.  It  was  watching  the  men  at  work  in  the  T.  Z.  that 
I  discovered  the  reason  why  our  business  men  prefer  mu- 
sical comedy  to  high-brow  drama — it  comes  nearer  visual- 
izing their  dreams. 

God  bless  them! — American  business  men.  That  I 
worked  among  them  only  six  weeks  was  entirely  my  own 
fault,  a  fault  for  which  I  have  often  reproached  myself. 
Had  it  not  been  for  Turpin  and  Hoolagan — or  rather  had 
those  two  unworthies  crossed  my  path  later  on  during  my 
four  years'  experience,  after  I  had  acquired  a  greater  amount 


142   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

of  self-control — I  might  not  have  gone  to  Mr.  Morton  be- 
fore the  end  of  my  third  week  and  assured  him  that  I  did 
not  like  bank  work,  and  never  would  like  it. 

Yet  had  I  remained  at  the  T.  Z.  until  our  soldiers  re- 
turned from  abroad  I  would  not  have  worked  hi  the  tene- 
ments of  New  York  City.  Without  what  I  saw  and  learned 
there  my  four  years'  experience  would  hardly  have  been 
worth  writing.  It  was  working  in  the  tenements,  living 
in  the  tenements  on  my  wages  that  showed  me  what  the 
working  man  and  woman  are  up  against — how  they  face 
their  problems,  and  how  they  feel  about  present-day  con- 
ditions. It  was  there,  too,  that  I  realized  the  menace  of 
idle  women  to  American  ideals  and  institutions. 


CHAPTER  XI 
I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

ABOUT  a  week  before  leaving  the  T.  Z.  I  had  a  set-to  with 
my  landlady.  Stopping  at  the  door  of  her  room  to  pay 
my  rent,  I  handed  her  two  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents 
— the  additional  quarter  for  gas  used  in  cooking.  Imagine 
my  astonishment  when  the  woman  began  to  goggle  her 
eyes  at  me,  to  wiggle  her  tongue  back  and  forth,  making  a 
hissing  sound,  all  the  while  trying  to  elongate  and  contract 
her  fat  stub  of  a  neck.  When  I  demanded  to  know  if  she 
had  lost  her  mind,  she  became  apologetic  and  assured  me 
that  she  was  only  trying  to  get  my  vibrations.  Thereupon, 
forgetting  the  biblical  threat  of  hell-fire,  I  told  her  she  was 
a  fool — not  the  scientific  fool  that  she  claimed  to  be,  but 
the  plain  garden  variety. 

Finding  Molly  on  the  top  floor,  I  told  her  I  did  not  wish 
Mrs.  Brown  to  go  into  my  room  so  long  as  I  paid  rent  for 
it.  The  next  day  I  went  direct  from  work  to  the  Jane 
Leonard  House — another  home  for  working  girls.  There 
I  paid  a  deposit  on  a  room  with  two  meals  a  day  at  six- 
fifty  a  week,  to  take  possession  at  the  end  of  my  tune  with 
Mrs.  Brown.  When  I  notified  this  woman  that  I  was 
leaving  her  house  she  denounced  me  bitterly. 

"You're  deserting  me  because  I  didn't  succeed  in  stop- 
ping the  war,"  she  accused.  Then  she  added,  wagging  her 
head  at  me:  "I  would 've  done  it  if  President  Wilson  had 
a-done  what  I  told  him  to.  That's  who's  a  fool — President 
Wilson.  If  he'd  a  stopped  the  war  my  fortune  would 've 
been  made." 

President  Wilson !  I  wonder  how  many  persons  call 
him  a  fool  because  he  refused  to  make  them  fortunes? 

143 


144   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

But  that  was  not  the  last  of  this  owner  of  my  first  rooming- 
house.  The  day  that  I  moved  out  she  waylaid  me  on  the 
stairs. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed?"  she  demanded.  "Ain't  you 
ashamed  to  treat  a  fellow  woman  like  you've  treated 
me?" 

"It  is  because  you  are  a  woman  that  I  am  leaving  your 
house,"  I  told  her.  "You  are  knowingly  and  intentionally 
a  faker.  It  is  the  duty  of  every  decent  woman  to  make 
you  feel  that  you  dishonor  your  sex.  A  man  won't  do  it — 
not  an  American — he  has  too  much  respect  for  your  sex." 

"It's  a  shame!"  she  cried,  shedding  copious  tears. 
"Men  are  always  kinder  to  a  woman  than  other  women." 

"It's  because  a  woman  better  understands  a  woman. 
Knowing  the  strength  as  well  as  the  weakness  of  her  own 
sex,  she  recognizes  their  petty  deceits  and  dishonesties,"  I 
replied  soothingly,  while  I  resisted  an  inclination  to  give 
her  a  good  deep  jab  with  my  hatpin,  and  thereby  give  her 
a  cause  for  real  tears.  "Don't  forget,  'it  takes  a  thief  to 
catch  a  thief.'  Good-by,  Mrs.  Brown."  And  I  ran  down 
the  stairs  and  out  at  the  front  door.  So  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned that  was  the  last  of  Mrs.  Brown,  the  inventor  of 
the  theory  of  "vibrations." 

When  engaging  a  room  at  the  Jane  Leonard  the  clerk 
told  me  that  guests  were  not  allowed  to  keep  then-  trunks 
in  their  rooms,  and  I  thereupon  congratulated  myself  on 
rny  trunks  being  in  storage.  On  moving  in,  for  in  that 
"home"  for  working  women  guests  engage  rooms  sight 
unseen,  I  wondered  that  the  management  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  formulate  a  rule  against  trunks.  There  was  liter- 
ally no  place  for  even  the  smallest  trunk  unless  it  was 
swung  from  the  ceiling — the  bed  being  too  low  for  even  the 
thinnest  of  steamers. 

Besides  a  narrow  cot  the  top  of  which  was  scarcely  one 
foot  above  the  floor,  there  was  a  small  rocking-chair,  a 


I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH        145 

small  table  with  one  minute  drawer,  a  narrow  chiffonier  with 
five  shallow  drawers,  topped  by  a  mirror  narrow  both  ways. 
There  was  also  a  sash-curtain,  a  window-shade,  a  white 
cotton  cover  on  the  table  and  another  on  the  chiffonier,  a 
clothes-closet,  and  a  face-towel  so  tiny  I  felt  sure  it  would 
never  grow  up.  Besides  a  brown  door  with  a  transom  and 
a  narrow  window  opening  on  a  court  only  slightly  wider 
than  the  door,  my  room  consisted  of  four  shiny  yellow  walls, 
a  shiny  white  ceiling,  and  a  shiny  brown  floor.  After  my 
first  peer  around  my  new  quarters — because  of  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  court  and  the  height  of  the  two  buildings  my 
window  only  admitted  twilight — I  took  myself  to  task  for 
being  overcritical.  Though  I  was  paying  two  dollars  and 
a  quarter  a  week  more  than  room  and  food  had  cost  at 
Mrs.  Brown's,  I  would  not  have  to  do  either  cooking  or 
dish-washing.  Doubtless  the  meals  would  be  better  and 
more  abundant  than  those  I  had  prepared  for  myself. 

Then  there  were  the  piazzas,  one  on  each  floor,  and  the 
roof-garden,  all  overlooking  the  river,  I  continued,  enumer- 
ating all  the  advantages  of  my  new  abiding-place.  It  would 
be  so  lovely  after  a  hard  day  down-town  to  sit  and  watch 
the  river  until  bedtime.  Of  course  I  must  get  another 
job  on  Monday;  no  use  of  loafing  when  our  country  needed 
every  woman  as  well  as  every  man.  By  that  time  my 
friend,  a  librarian  who  had  lived  in  the  Jane  Leonard  for 
several  years,  would  return  from  her  vacation,  and  I  would 
have  a  companionable  person  to  speak  to — for  weeks  before 
leaving  the  rooming-house  Molly  was  my  only  speaking 
acquaintance. 

Dinner  that  night  did  not  come  up  to  my  expectations 
— my  pet  abominations,  baked  beans  and  a  brown  bread 
even  worse  than  the  concoction  set  before  you  three  times 
a  week  in  Boston.  For  in  spite  of  my  three  years  in  a 
Massachusetts  college,  I  never  learned  to  enjoy  its  national 
dish,  or  two  dishes.  Before  going  to  the  Jane  Leonard 


146   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

when  this  combination  was  put  before  me  I  had  always 
looked  the  other  way  and  waited  for  the  next  course.  Here 
there  was  no  next  course.  Baked  beans  and  brown  bread 
was  dinner. 

A  woman  who  sat  under  my  elbow — the  table  was  so 
tiny  that  the  four  of  us  literally  sat  under  each  other's 
elbows — this  neighbor  of  mine  who  had  an  unpronounceable 
German  name  and  looked  like  an  American  of  African 
descent,  warned  me  darkly  that  I  would  be  glad  to  get 
such  nourishing  food  before  "this  country"  got  out  of  the 
war.  Nourishing!  The  very  adjective  that  had  been 
drummed  into  my  ears  while  at  college !  Even  three  years' 
dnimming  did  not  make  me  form  the  habit.  Its  worse 
result  was  a  play. 

I  do  not  now  recall  just  what  it  was  about  that  com- 
position that  so  aroused  the  ire  of  Professor  Baker.  It 
may  have  been  that  it  proved  my  point — that  New  Eng- 
landers  partake  of  their  Wednesday  and  Saturday  dinners 
and  their  Sunday  breakfasts  as  a  sort  of  memorial  feast  in 
honor  of  the  hardships  enjoyed  by  their  ancestors  when  they 
first  landed  on  their  rock-bound  coast.  Mr.  Baker  would 
not  agree  that  his  ancestors  enjoyed  hardships.  All  one 
has  to  do  is  to  read  history.  Early  New  Englanders  en- 
joyed hardships  just  as  the  Irish  do  being  persecuted — and 
almost  as  much.  The  result  was  pretty  much  the  same — 
both  peoples  multiplied  on  the  face  of  the  earth  and  left 
their  descendants  a  subject  for  conversation,  a  veritable 
snowball  of  a  subject,  which,  by  the  simple  method  of 
rolling  it  over  the  tongue  a  hard  fact  becomes  slushy 
fiction. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  we  had  eggs  for  breakfast. 
Unfortunately  I  was  the  first  at  table,  so  did  not  have  the 
advantage  of  advice  from  my  table-mates.  I  ordered  it 
medium-boiled.  When  peeled,  it  closely  resembled  a  golf 
ball  that  had  been  lying  in  the  wet  grass  for  a  couple  of 


I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH        147 

months.  That  proved  to  be  an  intensely  hot  day,  but 
sitting  on  the  roof-garden  or  the  piazzas  was  impossible 
because  of  a  virulent  stench. 

"It's  from  the  dumping-plant,  where  the  city  garbage  is 
loaded  on  scows  to  take  out  to  sea,"  a  woman  who  saw  me 
hurry  down  from  the  roof-garden  explained.  "The  wind 
always  blows  from  that  direction  hot  days." 

Being  too  dark  to  read  or  write  in  my  room,  I  spent  the 
morning  straightening  out  my  few  belongings.  On  hang- 
ing the  suit  in  which  I  had  set  out  on  my  adventure  and 
my  coat  in  the  closet,  it  seemed  so  full  that  I  decided  to  fold 
my  nightie  and  place  it  under  my  pillow. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  gaily  frescoed  individual,  who  in- 
formed me  that  she  was  the  assistant  housekeeper,  entered 
to  exchange  my  Peter  Pan  towel  for  a  fresh  one.  Evidently 
she  realized  that  my  little  pancake  of  a  pillow  had  risen 
too  high  and  too  suddenly,  for  she  jerked  it  up. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed,  pointing  a  stubby  red  finger  at 
my  nightie.  "Night-clothes  are  to  be  hung  in  the  closet. 
Don't  you  seethe  rules?" — pointing  at  along,  printed  page 
tacked  against  the  inside  of  my  door.  "Can't  you  read? 
You  can't  keep  nothin'  under  your  piller  nor  under  your 
bed  neither." 

Here,  going  down  on  her  knees,  she  peered  carefully  under 
the  bed;  then,  still  kneeling,  she  passed  her  eyes  over  every 
square  inch  of  the  four  shiny  yellow  walls.  When  they 
encountered  a  paper  bag  hanging  on  a  nail  to  one  side  of 
the  narrow  chiffonier,  she  scuffled  angrily  to  her  feet. 

"I'm  gonna  report  you,"  she  cried,  glaring  at  me.  "It's 
positive  against  our  rules — guests  drivin'  nails  in  the  walls. 
This  ain't  no  tenement.  Seems  like  you  can't  teach  some 
folks  nothin'." 

"Suppose  you  look  at  that  nail,"  I  advised  her,  as  I  re- 
moved the  paper  bag.  "You  can  see  for  yourself  that  it 
has  been  here  since  before  the  walls  were  painted.  It  is 


148      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

covered  with  the  same  coat  of  yellow  paint.  If  you  draw 
it  out  ever  so  carefully  it  would  mar  the  wall." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  hang  nothin'  on  it,"  she  told  me. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  my  winter  hat?"  I  asked,  as  I 
slipped  a  quarter  into  the  pocket  of  her  apron.  "It  is 
too  large  to  get  in  the  closet,  and  too  good  to  throw  away. 
Besides,  that  manila  bag  is  so  near  the  color  of  the  wall  it 
is  scarcely  noticeable." 

She  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket  and  felt  the  size  of  the 
coin. 

"Well,  if  you  didn't  drive  the  nail  I  won't  say  nothin' 
about  the  other  things,"  she  agreed.  Then  she  added 
cautiously:  "But  you'll  have  to  be  on  the  lookout  when 
Miss  Digges  comes  round.  She  don't  allow  nothin'  hung 
on  the  walls." 

"Who  is  Miss  Digges?" 

"She's  the  head  one,  the  manager.  And  you  never  know 
when  she's  comin'."  She  snatched  the  door  open,  and 
popping  her  head  out  looked  up  and  down  the  hall.  "I 
caught  her  once,  just  like  that.  She  was  followin'  me  around. 
Be  careful  about  that  hat  now." 

With  that  parting  injunction  she  took  her  departure. 
Her  hand  was  in  the  pocket  of  her  apron  and  her  gaudily 
painted  face  wreathed  with  smiles.  Money  talks ! 

That  midday  dinner  was  a  fairly  good  meal.  After  a 
good  soup  there  was  chicken  fricassee,  a  vegetable,  a  salad, 
and  ice-cream.  The  waitresses  all  wore  clean  aprons  and 
the  table  linen  was  fresh.  During  the  first  part  of  the  meal 
I  realized  an  indefinite  feeling  of  discomfort  that  I  had 
attributed  to  "nerves"  had  become  a  headache.  As  dinner 
went  on  instead  of  the  pain  becoming  less  it  increased. 

The  little  waitress  placed  my  ice-cream  before  me  and  I 
glanced  up  and  smiled  at  her.  That  movement  of  the 
muscles  in  my  face  explained  my  headache.  My  skin  felt 
so  tightly  stretched  that  it  seemed  as  though  I  should  have 


I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH        149 

heard  it  crinkle.  Leaving  the  ice-cream  untouched  I  ex- 
cused myself  and  hurried  up  to  my  room. 

If  I  could  only  take  my  erysipelas  medicine  in  time  it 
would  lessen  the  horror,  perhaps  prevent  it  entirely.  Fum- 
bling in  the  semidarkness  of  the  hall  I  got  my  key  in  the 
lock  of  my  room  door,  then  found  that  I  could  neither  turn 
it  nor  get  it  out.  I  must  have  struggled  with  that  key  for 
twenty  minutes.  Then  going  to  the  elevator  I  asked  the 
operator  if  he  could  get  it  out. 

"Sure,  lady,  I  can  get  it  out,"  he  told  me.  "But  I  don't 
know  what  song  and  dance  to  give  'em  in  the  office  that'll 
make  'em  let  me  leave  the  elevator.  I'll  go  try  and  see." 

After  waiting  fifteen  minutes  for  the  man  to  return  I 
pushed  the  button.  The  elevator  started  up  at  once.  In 
sight  of  me  the  operator  shook  his  head. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  ring.  I  can't  move  unless 
I  get  a  ring.  That's  a  rule."  He  opened  the  elevator- 
door.  "Maybe  if  you  goes  down  you  can  get  that  woman 
to  let  me  off.  I  told  her  you  was  sick  and  that  it  wouldn't 
take  me  ten  minutes,  but  it  didn't  do  no  good." 

I  stepped  into  the  elevator  and  went  down  to  the  office. 
The  clerk  that  afternoon  was  a  small  blonde  woman,  with 
a  face  as  hard  as  a  flint  rock.  After  explaining  conditions 
I  asked  her  to  allow  the  operator  to  leave  the  elevator  long 
enough  to  get  the  key  from  my  door — the  man  standing  at 
my  elbow  remarking  that  it  would  not  take  more  than 
five  or  six  minutes. 

"No,"  snapped  flint-face.  "We've  had  all  we're  going 
to  take — guests  putting  their  keys  in  upside  down.  We're 
going  to  stop  it.  You'll  have  to  wait  until  Jack  gets  off. 
Then  if  he  wants  to  help  you  it's  no  affair  of  ours  what  he 
does  in  his  free  time." 

"When  do  you  get  off?"  I  asked  the  operator. 

"Six  o'clock." 

It  was  then  seventeen  minutes  of  three.     Three  hours  and 


150   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

seventeen  minutes  to  wait !  The  tight  sensation  in  my 
face  had  passed  into  a  sharp  stinging  burning  that  every 
minute  was  growing  more  and  more  intense.  Three  hours 
and  seventeen  minutes !  The  doctors  had  cautioned  me 
against  allowing  erysipelas  to  get  to  my  eyes. 

I  begged  that  woman  as  though  begging  for  my  life — for  I 
believed  that  I  begged  for  my  sight.  It  had  absolutely  no 
effect  on  her.  When  I  asked  for  the  manager  she  laughed 
at  me. 

"Miss  Diggs  is  resting,"  she  told  me,  and  she  chuckled 
with  delight.  "You  disturb  her  Sunday-afternoon  nap 
and  she  would  have  your  key  taken  out  the  lock,  and  to- 
morrow morning  she'll  have  you  moved  out  the  house.  If 
guests  don't  like  our  rules  they  can  leave.  We've  got  dozens 
on  our  waiting-list  ready  to  take  your  place." 

Despairing  of  getting  the  woman  to  change  her  mind,  I 
stepped  into  the  hot  little  reception-room  and  took  my 
seat.  It  was  stifling.  I  could  see  the  sun  beaming  through 
the  windows  of  the  library  and  the  dance-hall  on  the  other 
side  of  the  exchange,  so  I  knew  they  were  still  hotter.  My 
face  was  like  a  red-hot  blaze,  and  no  tooth  ever  ached  as 
painfully  as  my  whole  head. 

Putting  my  pride  in  my  pocket  I  crept  out  and  asked 
the  woman  to  let  me  have  five  cents  to  telephone  to  a  drug- 
store. I  reminded  her  that  my  pocketbook  was  locked  in 
my  room,  then  that  I  was  a  friend  of  Miss  Stafford,  who  had 
lived  at  the  Jane  Leonard  for  nearly  five  years. 

"Why  don't  you  borrow  of  Miss  Stafford?" 

"You  know  yourself  she  is  not  here,"  I  wailed.  "You 
told  me  so  yesterday  when  I  came  in.  Said  she  wouldn't 
be  back  from  her  vacation  until  to-morrow.  I  gave  you  a 
note  to  be  delivered  as  soon  as  she  arrived." 

"Why  don't  you  borrow  of  the  elevator-man?"  she  asked, 
then  added  with  a  devil's  grin:  "you've  got  thick  enough 
with  him  considering  you've  been  here  less  than  twenty- 
four  hours." 


I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH        151 

"I  shall  ask  him,"  I  told  her.  "If  he's  got  it  I'm  sure 
he'll  lend  it  to  me." 

And  I  would  have  done  it  had  I  not  recalled  that  the 
prescription  was  in  my  pocketbook,  locked  up  in  my  room. 
I  knew  nothing  of  the  drug-stores  of  that  neighborhood. 
If  the  clerk  at  the  desk  would  not  trust  me  enough  to  lend 
me  five  cents,  it  was  not  at  all  probable  that  a  druggist 
would  let  me  have  a  medicine  for  which  I  could  not  pay. 
For  the  sake  of  getting  farther  away  from  that  clerk  when 
the  elevator  returned  I  took  it  and  went  back  to  my  floor. 

In  the  Jane  Leonard  one  of  the  many  "features"  adver- 
tised is  the  sitting-rooms,  one  on  each  floor.  It  was  to 
one  of  these  I  now  crept.  My  head !  My  God !  the  pain  in 
my  head.  The  living  flame  that  was  my  face !  If,  when  I 
die,  I  go  to  hell  I  do  not  believe  I  shall — that  I  can  suffer 
greater  agony  than  I  did  during  the  three  hours  spent  in 
that  hot  little  room  opening  on  a  court  and  shut  off  from 
the  outside  air.  Even  now,  looking  back  at  this  distance, 
that  afternoon — like  one  mad,  hideously  flaming  blur — is 
painful. 

When,  after  eons  of  time,  the  elevator-man  appeared  in 
the  door  of  that  sitting-room,  he  had  to  repeat  his  state- 
ment that  he  had  opened  my  door  before  I  could  under- 
stand. I  think  that  I  must  have  been  semidelirious.  I 
remember  that  as  he  followed  me  to  my  door  he  said  that 
it  had  not  taken  him  five  minutes.  Also — this  more  vividly 
— that  he  refused  to  take  the  tip  that,  though  suffering 
pain  almost  unendurable,  I  had  memory  enough  to  offer. 

Though  the  first  half  of  that  night  was  a  hideous  night- 
mare it  was  not  so  bad  as  the  afternoon.  I  could  not  lie 
down,  but  I  rested  on  the  bed  with  my  head  on  a  pillow 
against  the  wall.  Besides  I  had  water,  not  very  cool,  but 
a  refreshing  moisture  to  the  fever  of  my  face.  Most  of  all 
was  the  certainty  that  relief  was  on  the  way — once  the 
medicine  had  time  to  act. 

This  must  have  happened  toward  midnight.     I  was  suffi- 


152   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

ciently  conscious  to  recognize  the  step  of  a  man  passing 
along  the  hall,  and  to  know  that  he  was  the  night-watchman. 
Calling  through  a  crack  of  my  door  I  asked  him  to  turn  off 
the  light  in  the  hall  immediately  in  front  of  my  transom. 
He  was  so  concerned  about  my  not  being  asleep  that  screw- 
ing up  my  courage  I  asked  if  he  thought  he  could  get  me  a 
small  piece  of  ice. 

"Sure,  lady,"  he  told  me.  "I'll  get  it  from  the  ice-box 
in  the  basement,  and  I'll  bring  it  straight  up — not  wait  to 
come  on  my  rounds." 

That  miit-faced  woman  in  the  office  had  shaken  my 
faith  in  humanity  to  such  an  extent  that  I  did  not  believe 
this  watchman.  I  thought  he  was  jollying  me.  So  sure 
of  it  that  I  went  back  to  dabbling  my  handkerchief  in  the 
little  pan  of  water  that  I  had  fetched  from  the  bathroom, 
and  tried  to  make  myself  as  comfortable  as  might  be  sitting 
on  the  bed  with  my  head  propped  against  the  wall. 

In  a  surprisingly  short  time  the  night-watchman  was 
back  again.  He  had  brought  me  a  pitcherful  of  ice,  not  a 
small  pitcher  either.  He  explained  that  he  had  put  the 
large  piece  at  the  bottom  so  that  I  might  easily  get  the 
smaller  ones.  When  I  offered  him  a  tip  he  stepped  beyond 
the  reach  of  my  hand,  and  told  me: 

"My  wife's  niece  lived  in  a  place  like  this  before  she 
married.  One  tune  she  took  sick  and  'most  starved  to 
death  before  she  could  get  us  word — nobody  come  near  her 
for  more'n  two  days.  If  you  want  anything  just  you  call 
when  you  hear  me  passing." 

For  the  first  time  I  realized  fully  the  blessing  of  ice. 
The  little  towel  being  too  rough  I  tore  up  the  softer  of  my 
two  nighties  to  get  a  cloth  large  enough  to  cover  my  face 
and  neck.  After  several  applications  of  this  cloth  saturated 
in  ice-cold  water,  I  fell  asleep,  comforted  by  the  belief  that 
the  medicine  and  ice  had  come  in  tune  to  prevent  the 
erysipelas  from  reaching  my  eyes. 


I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH        153 

When  I  waked  I  could  not  open  my  eyes.  I  distinctly 
recall  that  I  had  no  thoughts,  no  fears — just  a  stunned 
feeling.  Next  I  decided  that  I  must  not  cry — that  would 
not  help  matters,  only  lessen  the  chance  of  saving  my  sight, 
that  is,  if  it  could  be  saved.  Then  I  determined  that  if  I 
did  have  to  be  blind  I  did  not  have  to  be  a  coward.  Grop- 
ing about  I  located  my  little  pan  and  the  pitcher.  Two 
pieces  of  ice  still  floated  in  the  deliciously  cold  water,  and 
I  proceeded  to  apply  the  cloth  saturated  with  the  water. 

As  the  time  wore  on  I  heard  alarm-clocks  in  the  rooms 
about  me  go  off,  their  owners  get  up,  move  about  while 
dressing,  then  go  out,  always  banging  their  doors.  One 
by  one  I  listened  as  their  footfalls  became  less  and  less  dis- 
tinct and  merged  into  silence.  The  chambermaids  came 
on.  I  heard  them  talking  and  the  clash  and  thumping  of 
the  dustpans  and  brooms.  Finally  one  came  to  my  room. 

Without  knocking  she  opened  the  door,  and  before  I 
could  prevent  her  turned  on  the  light.  I  shrieked  with 
pain.  Then  as  automatically  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief — if 
light  hurt  my  eyes  I  could  not  be  totally  blind.  On  learn- 
ing that  I  was  sick  and  would  make  my  own  bed,  the  maid 
turned  and  was  leaving  the  room.  I  asked  her  to  turn  off 
the  light,  and  then  after  an  effort  inquired  if  she  could  get 
me  some  cracked  ice.  She  took  the  pitcher  and  promised 
to  bring  back  the  ice  as  soon  as  she  got  a  "  chance." 

As  time  passed  and  the  girl  did  not  return  I  realized  my 
folly  in  allowing  her  to  take  the  pitcher — even  tepid  water 
was  more  soothing  to  my  inflamed  face  and  eyes  than  the 
dry  cloth.  At  last,  giving  up  all  expectation  of  getting  ice 
until  the  return  of  Miss  Stafford,  I  took  my  little  tin  pan 
and  groped  my  way  to  the  bathroom. 

Back  in  my  room  I  found  that  I  had  barely  a  half-tea- 
cup of  water — doubtless  there  was  a  rule  against  spilling 
water  along  the  halls.  Fortunately,  I  reasoned,  the  heat 
would  soon  dry  it  up.  The  house  was  profoundly  still. 


154      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

If  there  was  anybody  in  it  they  didn't  come  to  my  hall. 
Several  times  I  made  the  trip  back  and  forth  to  the  bath- 
room with  my  tin  pan,  each  time  realizing  that  the  inflam- 
mation must  be  less  because  I  could  see  a  little  better. 

It  was  a  long  day  but  I  did  not  get  hungry.  When  the 
women  began  to  return  from  work  I  began  nervously  to 
wait  for  my  friend.  Being  employed  in  the  library  of  a 
down-town  mortgage  company,  I  knew  their  closing  hour 
was  not  later  than  five-thirty.  Time  passed,  but  none  of 
the  footsteps  passing  so  frequently  along  the  hall  stopped 
at  my  door. 

One  woman's  voice  called  along  the  hall  asking  the  time. 
Another  answered  that  it  was  a  few  minutes  before  eight. 
Eight  o'clock!  Miss  Stafford  had  not  returned  from  her 
vacation  and  I  was  dependent  on  the  night-watchman. 
He  had  told  me  that  he  made  his  first  round  at  eleven 
o'clock,  so  I  set  about  preparing  for  the  three  hours'  wait — • 
to  make  my  little  pan  of  water  last  until  he  came.  Now 
the  inflammation  had  subsided  sufficiently  to  make  me 
keenly  conscious  of  the  difference  between  the  duskiness 
of  the  halls  during  daylight  and  the  glare  under  electric 
lights. 

One  of  the  footfalls  along  the  hall  did  stop  at  my  door. 
There  was  a  tap  and  my  friend  entered. 

"Why!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  makes  you  such  a 
night-owl?  I'm  going  to  turn  on  the  light." 

Fortunately  I  spoke  before  she  found  the  electric  button. 
She  was  shocked  on  learning  what  was  the  matter,  and  how 
it  had  all  happened,  and  even  more  shocked  when  I  told 
her  that  I  had  moved  in  the  previous  Saturday  afternoon 
and  left  a  note  for  her  with  the  clerk.  She  had  returned 
from  her  vacation  Saturday  forenoon,  had  been  in  the  Jane 
Leonard  all  Saturday  afternoon,  all  Sunday  except  for  the 
time  spent  lunching  with  a  friend  a  few  blocks  away.  She 
had  returned  from  her  office  a  few  minutes  before  six  that 


I  AM  SICK  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH        155 

afternoon,  got  her  mail  and  room-key  at  the  office  on  her 
way  to  her  room.  Returned,  handed  in  her  key  at  the 
office,  had  her  dinner,  and  then  gone  out  for  a  walk.  It 
was  after  this  walk,  when  she  stopped  at  the  office  for  the 
key  of  her  room,  that  my  note  was  given  her  by  the  night- 
clerk. 

The  only  information  vouchsafed  to  Miss  Stafford  and 
me  by  the  woman  to  whom  I  had  given  the  note  was: 

"It  was  misplaced.  I  put  it  in  507  as  soon  as  it  turned 
up."  And  the  tone  in  which  that  statement  was  made 
was  not  in  the  slightest  apologetic.  Indeed  it  was  impa- 
tient to  the  point  of  rudeness. 

"  There's  nothing  we  can  do,"  Miss  Stafford  told  me. 
"Mrs.  Scrimser,  that's  the  room-clerk's  name,  is  a  special 
friend  of  Miss  Diggs.  Miss  Diggs?  She  belongs  to  an 
old  New  York  family,  they  say.  She's  always  very  nice 
to  me.  She  always  speaks  to  me." 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed.  "Doesn't  she  speak  to  every 
guest  who  has  been  here  long  enough  for  her  to  know  them  ?  " 

Miss  Stafford  shook  her  head. 

"That's  the  reason  we  consider  it  worth  mentioning  when 
she  does.  You'll  have  to  wait  and  see  for  yourself.  It's  a 
condition  that  can't  exactly  be  explained." 

A  very  wise  reply  I  found  that  to  be  before  I  left  the 
Jane  Leonard — a  condition  that  cannot  exactly  be  ex- 
plained. At  least  it  could  not  be  explained  with  credit  to 
the  persons  controlling  the  house,  nor  to  the  woman  whom 
they  employed  to  manage  it. 

Because  of  that  attack  of  erysipelas  I  was  confined  to 
my  room  for  nearly  a  week.  When  I  felt  strong  enough 
to  go  out,  it  was  only  in  the  evening  to  the  roof-garden,  or 
for  a  walk  along  the  river's  edge.  Even  then  I  was  com- 
pelled to  wear  a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  colored  glasses 
to  shield  my  eyes.  When  at  last  my  eyes  became  strong 
enough  for  me  to  lay  aside  the  glasses,  it  was  a  couple  of 


156      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

weeks  before  I  dared  to  read  or  do  anything  besides  coarse 
knitting — sweaters  for  our  soldiers. 

Lack  of  money  forced  me  back  to  work.  The  last  of  the 
fifty  dollars  for  which  I  had  worked  so  hard,  and  skimped 
so  carefully,  had  to  be  drawn  from  the  savings-bank  to 
pay  my  board.  Fortunately  the  Y.  W.  would  get  me  a 
job  without  first  exacting  a  fee. 

On  my  explaining  that  I  didn't  feel  quite  honest — taking 
a  position  and  receiving  the  training,  and  then  leaving 
within  a  couple  of  weeks — the  woman  in  charge  of  the  em- 
ployment bureau  advised  me  to  take  temporary  positions. 
There  was  always  quite  a  demand  for  such  workers,  she 
explained.  Now  that  there  was  so  much  government  work 
to  be  done,  she  found  it  hard  to  get  any  one  to  so  much  as 
consider  a  temporary  job. 

"Have  you  anything  temporary  in  the  way  of  govern- 
ment work?"  I  asked.  "I'd  like  to  feel  that  I  was  helping 
the  government  if  there  is  anything  you  think  I  could  do." 

"I  wish  all  the  girls  sent  out  from  here  were  as  well 
equipped,"  she  told  me  while  looking  over  her  file.  "I'll 
give  you  a  card  to  ex-State  Senator  Gallagher.  He  is 
organizing  and  setting  in  motion  the  working  end  of  the 
District  Board  for  the  City  of  New  York,  down  in  the  old 
Post-Office  Building.  There  are  plenty  of  other  openings, 
but  I'm  quite  sure  he'll  take  you." 


CHAPTER  XII 
JACKALS  FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING 

THE  evening  after  my  first  day  spent  as  a  clerk  of  the 
District  Board  for  the  City  of  New  York  I  reached  the 
Jane  Leonard  in  time  to  be  among  the  first  who  entered 
the  dining-room  for  dinner.  The  meal  was  good  enough, 
soup,  roast  lamb  and  a  vegetable,  and  it  being  Monday  the 
aprons  and  shirt-waists  of  the  waitresses  were  still  clean, 
but — oh,  the  flies!  These  pests  swarmed  over  everything 
except  Miss  Diggs'  table.  That  was  always  kept  carefully 
covered  with  mosquito-netting. 

Getting  through  dinner  as  soon  as  I  decently  could,  I 
hurried  up  to  one  of  the  piazzas  and  sat  watching  the  boats 
passing  back  and  forth  on  the  river — every  conceivable 
sort  of  craft  from  a  tiny  dory  manned  by  two  half-nude 
small  boys  to  huge  Sound  steamers  with  noisily  splashing 
side-wheels.  Among  this  noisy  throng  now  and  then  there 
would  pass  such  strangely  colored  boats,  boats  that  made 
me  think  them  the  product  of  some  cubist  or  futurist  when 
in  the  clutches  of  a  nightmare — camouflage,  weird  twistings 
and  curves  in  blues,  greens,  purples,  black,  gray,  white. 
It  was  soon  after  the  disappearance  of  one  such  boat  that 
Miss  Stafford  came  out  and  took  the  chair  next  to  mine. 

"How  do  you  like  your  new  position?"  she  asked,  as 
turning  her  chair  sideways  to  the  piazza  railing  she  put 
her  feet  on  the  rung  of  my  chair. 

"W-e-1-1,"  I  hesitated.  "I  don't  know  whether  to  be 
amused  by  it  or  to  hate  it — reading  the  affidavits  of  draft- 
evaders.  There  are  so  many  of  them  I  feel  like  kicking, 
yet,  at  the  same  time  I  feel  like  crying — to  find  that  there 

157 


158      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

are  so  many  persons  living  in  our  country,  fattening  on  it, 
enjoying  its  benefits  and  not  caring  enough  for  it  to  fight 
for  its  ideals." 

"You  mustn't  expect  everybody  to  be  as  keen  about 
doing  their  bit  as  you  are.  Your  fingers  are  never  still. 
You  must  roll  bandages  or  knit  sweaters  in  your  sleep," 
she  laughed.  "What  are  the  other  employees  like?" 

"We're  a  grab-bag  lot.  It  is  just  as  though  the  Secre- 
tary of  War,  wishing  to  set  going  the  machinery  of  the  draft, 
had  thrust  his  hand  into  a  bag  filled  with  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  workers,  and  would-be  workers,  and  grabbed 
a  handful.  The  head  of  the  subdepartment  in  which  I 
work  was  a  saleswoman  in  a  smallish  Brooklyn  shop,  at 
eight  dollars  a  week.  Now  she  is  getting  twenty-five,  and 
seems  to  look  upon  it  as  a  miracle." 

"I  can  sympathize  with  her,"  the  librarian  told  me.  "In 
the  New  York  public  library  I  only  received  forty  dollars 
a  month.  Now  I  get  eighty  and  the  promise  of  a  bonus 
at  Christmas.  After  you've  skimped  and  struggled  so 
long  to  have  your  salary  doubled  in  one  jump  does  make 
you  feel  inclined  to  pinch  yourself.  But  when  the  war  is 
over — you  don't  think  salaries  will  go  down  again,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  That's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out — 
whether  wages  should  go  still  higher,  remain  on  the  present 
level,  or  fall  back  to  the  pre-war  figure."  Then  I  outlined 
what  I  had  done,  and  what  I  planned  to  do. 

"Until  after  the  war — go  from  one  position  to  another? 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !"  she  exclaimed.  "You  will 
never  make  anything,  taking  what  employers  offer  you." 

"I'll  learn  conditions  and,  incidentally,  employers." 

"But  you  might  do  so  much  better.  With  your  pull 
even  though  you  can't  go  abroad  you  could  land  some- 
thing big.  There's  the  publicity  department " 

"Allah  forbid !"  And  even  a  Moslem  himself  could  not 
have  been  more  fervent. 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        159 

"But  why  not?    You're  a  writer,  and 

"It  is  because  I  am  a  writer,"  I  interrupted.  "Because 
I  am  a  writer  and  intend  some  day  to  be  an  author." 

"You  make  a  distinction!  Whom  do  you  think  of  as 
authors?" 

"Thomas  Hardy,  John  Galsworthy,  George  Eliot,  Mar- 
garet Deland,  Booth  Tarkington,  and  others,"  I  answered, 
then  added:  "Come,  let  us  talk  about  people,  not  books." 

"All  right,"  she  agreed  pleasantly,  though  she  still  kept 
her  feet  on  my  chair.  "You  say  the  head  of  your  sub- 
department  gets  twenty-five  a  week — what  does  the  head 
of  the  department  receive?  And  what  manner  of  indi- 
vidual is  he  or  she?" 

"Fifty  a  week.  A  man,  of  course,  about  forty,  hale  and 
hearty,  with  a  wife  and  no  children.  I  think  he  must  be 
what  is  called  a  political  hanger-on.  I  heard  him  tell  Mr. 
Jobaski  that  he  hadn't  been  without  a  political  job  for 
more  than  twenty  years,  just  stepped  from  one  to  another." 

"And  Mr.  Jobaski?" 

"Quite  a  young  man,  not  more  than  twenty-six.  He's 
the  head  of  another  department  and  receives  fifty  a  week. 
His  name  tells  his  nationality." 

"Unmarried?" 

I  nodded  my  head.  "But  he  has  a  mother,"  I  added, 
wishing  to  give  as  good  an  account  as  possible  of  my  fellow 
workers. 

"Dependent?"  The  librarian  had  quick-moving,  clear 
blue  eyes.  There  was  still  enough  daylight  for  me  to  see 
that  she  suspected  my  object. 

"W-e-1-1,"  glancing  at  her  through  the  corners  of  my 
eyes  and  catching  her  watching  me,  I  laughed,  "to  tell  the 
truth  Mr.  Jobaski  is  a  draft-evader,  or  trying  to  be.  Miss 
Sneezet,  my  immediate  boss,  told  me  that  he  had  been 
drafted,  but  was  'tryin'  to  keep  from  goinV  This  after- 
noon, as  a  great  honor,  he  offered  to  let  me  use  his  pen. 


160      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

He  assured  me  it  was  solid  gold,  and  given  him  by  his 
mother  at  his  last  birthday.  It  certainly  is  solid  some- 
thing, almost  as  large  as  my  thumb,  with  a  larger  emerald 
set  in  the  end — really  a  handsome  stone.  For  a  pen !  It 
felt  more  like  a  crowbar.  Any  more  questions,  Miss  Perse- 
cuting Attorney  ?  " 

"Since  you  don't  really  enjoy  the  work,  it  must  be  the 
persons  with  whom  you  are  thrown.  I  may  as  well  learn 
your  taste,"  Miss  Stafford  informed  me,  and  it  was  entirely 
evident  that  she  did  not  approve  of  the  plan  I  had  mapped 
out  for  myself.  "And  the  individuals  in  your  department 
— men,  women,  or  whatever  they  may  be?" 

"Women  and  girls.  The  one  on  my  right  had  been  ped- 
dling matches  when  she  was  'taken  on' — she  couldn't  get 
anything  else,  so  she  told  me.  The  one  at  my  left  was 
cashier  in  a  butcher-shop,  seven  a  week.  Another  had 
been  a  saleswoman  in  a  jewelry  store,  seven  a  week.  Next 
her  a  girl  who,  as  a  learner  on  a  power-machine,  had  not 
arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  salary.  While  the  one  taken  on 
after  me  was  in  her  second  year  at  high  school  when  eat- 
ables began  to  sky-rocket  so  fast  last  whiter.  She  had  to 
go  to  work,  cash-girl  in  a  department  store  at  five  a  week, 
to  help  her  father  support  her  younger  brothers  and  sisters." 

The  librarian  shook  her  head  and  continued  to  regard 
me  with  speculative  eyes.  I  could  see  that  she  was  think- 
ing of  me,  what  she  regarded  as  my  peculiar  taste,  not  of 
the  persons  about  whom  I  had  been  talking. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  pathetic?"  I  began  again  after  a 
short  silence.  "These  women  and  girls  are  forced  to  think 
of  such  a  catastrophe  as  the  war  as  a  godsend.  From  five 
dollars  a  week  to  fifteen,  think  what  a  relief  it  must  be.  I 
don't  believe  that  the  girl  who  was  selling  matdhes  made 
even — "  Glancing  up  stream  I  caught  my  breath.  "Hush," 
I  whispered,  peering  at  a  dark  bulk  on  the  river  gliding 
toward  us. 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        161 

"Hush!"  the  woman  at  my  elbow  repeated,  and  others 
taking  up  the  word  it  ran  the  length  of  the  piazza. 

"Yes!  Yes!  It  is  they,"  the  woman  at  my  elbow  ex- 
claimed, hah"  under  her  breath.  "I  saw  them  against  a 
light  on  the  water.  They  are  in  uniform — our  boys !" 

It  came  on,  that  huge  black  ship;  it  made  no  sound, 
there  was  no  ray  of  light.  Against  the  reflections  of  the 
shore  lights  dancing  on  the  water  we  made  out,  peering 
through  the  gloom,  the  trim  young  figures  packing  every 
deck  and  leaning  from  the  port-holes.  The  other  crafts 
on  the  river,  as  though  recognizing  the  destination  of  the 
great  ship  and  the  preciousness  of  her  freight,  all  made  way 
for  her — three  of  them  crowding  close  against  the  shore  in 
front  of  the  Jane  Leonard. 

"May  we  not  call  God's  blessing  to  them?"  a  woman's 
voice  farther  along  the  piazza  questioned,  half  sobbing. 

"Give  the  German  spies  in  this  house  a  chance  to  have 
their  ship  sunk  as  it  leaves  the  harbor?  Not  much."  It 
was  the  little  woman  at  my  elbow. 

As  they  drew  nearer — our  boys — each  woman  found  her 
pocket-handkerchief.  There  was  no  waving,  no  word; 
now  and  then  a  half-smothered  sob.  A  mute  tribute  to 
the  soldiers  on  the  dark  ship  to  which  they  responded  as 
mutely — as  the  ship  swept  past,  against  the  dancing  lights 
on  the  water,  we  saw  that  they  all  bared  their  heads. 

Bending  far  out  over  the  banisters  of  the  piazza  we 
watched  it  gliding  away  from  us — a  silent  ship  upon  a 
silent  river,  no  sound,  no  ray  of  light.  Now  and  again  as 
it  passed  a  building  on  the  island  we  would  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  trim  silhouette  of  a  young  figure.  Under  the  bridge 
it  slipped  and  beyond,  at  every  heart-beat  growing  smaller 
and  more  dim.  Then  it  melted  into  darkness — a  black- 
gray  speck  upon  a  black-gray  river. 

The  women  on  the  piazza  drew  a  deep  breath  that 
sounded  almost  like  a  heavy  sigh  from  one  breast  as  they 


162      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

sank  back  in  their  chairs.  The  men  hi  the  three  crafts 
that  had  put  in  against  our  shore  began  to  talk — not  loudly, 
but  to  call  back  and  forth,  as  though  giving  and  taking 
orders.  A  bell  clanged,  a  whistle  sounded,  and  the  three 
boats  again  started  on  their  way — busily  noisy  boats  on  a 
busy,  noisy  river. 

"I'm  going  down-stairs,"  the  woman  at  my  elbow  an- 
nounced. "If  any  of  those  damned  spies  tries  to  use  the 
telephone,  I'll  know  how  to  stop  her."  She  was  no  bigger 
than  a  second. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  a  woman  called  from  the  far  end  of 
the  piazza. 

Conversation  was  not  resumed.  One  by  one  the  women 
went  in  until  finally  the  piazza  was  left  to  the  librarian  and 
me.  Unmindful  of  my  surroundings  I  sat  staring  straight 
ahead — for  all  I  knew  one  of  my  brothers,  or  all  of  them, 
might  be  on  that  silent  ship.  Would  they  sail  away  into 
the  unknown  without  being  allowed  to  say  good-by  to  any 
one,  even  their  mothers?  Had  the  country  that  my  an- 
cestors helped  to  found  come  to  such  a  pass? — its  sons 
going  to  fight  in  its  defense  must  steal  away  in  the  dark- 
ness. Immigrants?  Loathsome  ingrates! 

"I'm  thinking  of  your  grab-bag  lot,"  Miss  Stafford 
remarked,  and  I,  having  forgotten  her  presence,  turned 
grouchily  toward  her. 

"Politics,  like  want,  makes  strange  bedfellows,"  I  replied 
indifferently.  Somehow  the  heart  seemed  to  have  been 
dragged  out  of  my  body  by  the  passing  of  that  ship.  I 
longed  to  go  away,  get  off  by  myself,  yet  dreaded  the  hot 
discomfort  of  my  little  room.  Why  could  not  this  woman 
go  to  her  comfortable  room  and  leave  me  the  piazza? 

"Under  a  Democratic  administration  it  is  to  be  expected 
that  Democrats  will  get  all  the  jobs,"  the  librarian  reminded 
me.  "To  the  victors  belong  the  spoils,  you  know." 

"All  I  know  about  it,"  I  replied  crossly,  "is  that  Judge 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        163 

Roger  Pryor  once  told  me  that  he  was  the  first  to  use  that 
quotation  as  a  political  slogan.  I  don't  know  the  politics 
of  any  of  my  fellow  workers." 

When  this  subject  recurred  to  me  the  following  day  I 
promptly  began  a  quiet  investigation.  Much  to  my  sur- 
prise I  learned  that  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Gallagher, 
every  person  with  whom  I  had  come  in  contact  who  re- 
ceived above  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  the  lowest  salary  paid, 
was  a  Republican,  and  had  voted  against  President  Wilson. 
And  they  made  no  bones  about  either  fact.  Mr.  Jobaski 
boasted  of  having  held,  for  several  years,  another  federal 
job.  And  that  he  still  held  it,  having  put  in  a  substitute 
at  a  lower  salary.  Speaking  of  it,  he  assured  me  that  it 
was  the  easiest  and  safest  way  for  a  person  to  make  money. 

The  head  of  the  department  in  which  I  worked,  the  fifty- 
dollar-a-week  man,  also  had  a  code  of  morals  somewhat 
different  from  any  I  had  ever  heard  put  into  words. 

"What's  your  hurry?"  he  would  ask,  on  seeing  you  re- 
turning to  your  work  after  lunch,  or  at  any  time.  "No  need 
for  you  to  rush  around  and  kill  yourself.  When  you  cheat 
the  government  you  are  only  cheating  yourself — taking 
what  really  belongs  to  you,  your  own  property." 

He  certainly  lived  up  to  his  own  preaching.  In  the 
whole  six  weeks  that  I  was  on  that  job  I  never  saw  him  do 
so  much  as  an  hour's  work.  When  he  was  not  lolling  back, 
his  chair  on  its  two  hind  legs,  smoking  an  expensive  cigar, 
he  was  strolling  along  the  corridors  smoking  or  talking  with 
anybody  he  could  buttonhole.  He  was  a  great  man  for 
"ordering"  supplies  for  the  department — pencils,  paper, 
printed  blanks  of  every  known  variety,  in  short  anything 
that  he  could  think  of,  or  that  was  suggested  to  him.  Be- 
cause my  eyes  were  giving  me  trouble  I  borrowed  an  eye- 
shade  and  wore  it  while  at  work.  This  man  caught  a  glimpse 
of  me  and  at  once  sent  hi  a  written  order  for  eye-shades  for 
every  worker  in  the  department,  including  himself.  When 


164   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

the  shades  came  and  were  distributed  everybody,  except- 
ing myself  and  the  man,  tossed  them  aside  with  scorn. 
Up  to  the  very  day  of  his  discharge  this  man  made  a  point 
of  wearing  his  eye-shade  when  strolling  along  the  corridors 
smoking.  To-day  among  my  "exhibits"  I  treasure  a 
green  celluloid  eye-shade,  paid  for  by  the  United  States. 

In  this  federal  job  my  work  at  first  was  winnowing  out 
and  getting  together  the  papers  of  drafted  men  whose 
claim  for  exemption  had  to  be  passed  on  by  the  District 
Board.  And  such  claims  as  many  of  them  did  set  forth ! 
— reasons  why  they  should  not  be  called  on  to  fight  for 
their  country.  They  called  themselves  men! 

It  was  from  these  papers  that  I  learned  a  new  use  for  a 
wife — to  help  her  husband  evade  draft  duty.  The  variety 
of  these  dependent  ones  was  almost  as  great  as  their  num- 
ber. One  was  dependent  because  her  husband  paid  fifteen 
thousand  a  year  for  an  apartment  in  which  to  keep  her. 
The  husband  of  this  expensive  dependent  was  a  composer 
of  popular  music,  who  described  himself  as  a  "  creative 
artist,"  and  he  gave  his  yearly  income  at  such  a  very  low 
figure  that  the  greatest  of  the  many  surprises  in  his  paper 
was  that  he  was  able  to  pay  his  rent.  That  man's  papers 
were  so  absurd,  for,  while  pleading  his  inability  to  support 
his  wife  if  he  was  forced  to  go  to  the  front,  he  boasted  of  the 
huge  sums  he  had  received  in  royalties,  so  that  I  always  had 
a  suspicion  that  they  were  prepared  by  his  publicity  agent 
with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

Another  proud  possessor  of  a  dependent  wife  was  the  son 
of  a  millionaire  bread-maker.  His  application  proved  him 
to  be  in  such  dire  poverty  that  we  all  decided  he  had  made 
a  mistake — instead  of  being  the  son  of  a  bread-maker,  he 
must  have  been  the  son  of  a  bread-line. 

Unfortunately  for  the  evaders  their  wives  were  not  always 
so  complacent.  One  man  made  out  a  very  good  case — his 
wife  was  delicate,  their  baby  less  than  two  years  old,  and 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        165 

his  salary  small.  Alas  for  his  hopes !  His  father-in-law 
also  sent  an  affidavit  with  the  necessary  number  of  wit- 
nesses. He  proved  that  this  dearly  beloved  dependent 
wife  had  been  deserted  by  her  now  affectionate  husband  six 
months  after  marriage — the  father-in-law  had  supported 
both  mother  and  child.  This  old  man  stated  plainly  that 
he  would  be  very  grateful  to  get  his  son-in-law  sent  out  of 
the  country,  and  kept  out — he  did  not  specify  on  which 
battle-field. 

When  Alice  left  me  I  felt  sure  that  never  again  would  I 
meet  a  person  with  such  an  exalted  opinion  of  a  college 
education.  That  was  an  error.  I  was  yet  to  meet  two 
more.  The  first  of  these  two  appealed  to  me  the  day  that 
our  department  was  moved  up-stairs — the  top  floor  of  the 
old  Post-Office  Building.  In  appearance  he  was  an  un- 
usually fine-looking  man  of  about  twenty-five — a  blond, 
and  slightly  under  six  feet  in  height.  He  was  the  picture 
of  health,  well  fed  and  exceptionally  well  groomed. 

Stopping  in  the  door  he  glanced  around  and  chanced  to 
catch  my  eyes.  Smiling  he  walked  across  and  greeted  me 
with  great  cordiality.  He  wished  very  much  to  know  just 
how  his  case  stood,  he  explained,  and  was  sure  that  I  could 
assist  him  materially.  I  had  not  read  his  papers,  so  I 
asked  him  for  an  outline  of  his  case,  as  well  as  his  name  and 
address.  On  learning  these  particulars  my  face  must  have 
expressed  a  lack  of  enthusiasm  in  his  cause,  for  he  hastened 
to  add: 

"It's  like  this — if  I'd  thought  I  was  going  to  be  drafted, 
I  would  have  enlisted.  Now  all  I  ask  'em  is  to  let  me 
enlist." 

"Now  that  you  are  drafted  why  do  you  wish  to  enlist?" 
I  asked,  for  this  was  a  new  type  of  an  evader  to  me. 

He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  looked  down 
on  me  with  indignation. 

"I'm  a  college  man,"  he  informed  me  haughtily.    "It 


166   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

is  impossible  for  me  to  associate  with  the  type  of  man  sent 
to  — th  Camp." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  them?"  I  questioned, 
still  at  a  loss  to  know  at  what  he  actually  was  driving. 
"What  could  they  do  to  you?" 

"Do  to  me?"  He  was  so  disgusted  that  he  appeared  to 
consider  turning  his  back  on  me.  Evidently  he  had  a 
second  and  what  he  considered  a  wiser  thought.  "I'll  tell 
you  just  how  it  is — what  happened  when  I  went  out  there 
the  other  day,"  he  began  in  the  confidential  tone  assumed 
by  some  men  when  they  think  they  are  about  to  help  them- 
selves to  a  kiss.  "The  first  man  I  met  was  a  barber — the 
fellow  who  has  been  shaving  me  every  morning  for — oh,  I 
don't  know  how  long."  Looking  at  him  I  waited — I  was 
not  waiting  for  the  kiss.  "Now,  you  couldn't  expect  me 
to  associate  with  fellows  like  those — could  you?"  I  looked 
away  without  replying — there  are  so  many  different  kinds 
of  fool  in  this  world.  After  a  moment  he  added  pettishly: 
"If  you  were  a  college  woman  you'd  understand." 

He  not  only  made  me  feel  ill,  but  he  made  me  feel  evil.  I 
felt  just  as  one  does  when  hi  the  grip  of  a  bilious  attack — 
what  is  it  all  about  ? — why  not  kill  me  at  once  without  put- 
ting me  through  such  nauseating  torments? 

"I  am  a  college  woman,"  I  told  him,  feeling  weak  from 
nausea.  The  next  instant  resentment  flared  up,  and  taking 
the  bit  in  my  teeth  I  lied  without  shame.  "I'm  not  only  a 
college  graduate,  but  I  have  four  honorary  degrees." 

"Four  degrees!"  he  cried,  staring  at  me  goggle-eyed. 
"Why,  why!  What  you  work  here  for? — 'mong  these 
people?" 

"For  one  reason,  because  I'm  not  a  jinnyass,"  I  snapped 
back  at  him.  "For  another,  I'd  sweep  the  streets,  be  glad 
to  sweep  them,  for  the  sake  of  helping  my  country  win 
this  war."  Then  I  stood  and  glared  at  him,  and  I  think  I 
clinched  my  fists.  "God  help  a  college  that  turns  out  such 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        167 

male  creatures  as  you."  Turning  my  back  on  him  I  stalked 
over  to  a  window  and  stood  staring  at  the  front  of  the 
City  Hall. 

I  was  not  grieving  for  the  lie  told  when  claiming  four 
degrees.  But  I  did  regret,  rebelliously  regret,  that  it  was 
not  within  my  power  to  form  all  draft-evaders  in  one  com- 
pany, force  them  to  the  front,  and  leave  them  for  the  Ger- 
mans to  finish.  I  questioned,  and  I  still  question,  the 
right  of  any  person,  man  or  woman,  to  live  in  a  country 
for  which  he  or  she  is  unwilling  to  fight.  I  felt  and  I  still 
feel  that  if  they  had  any  sense  of  honor  in  then-  puny  souls, 
they  would  get  out  and  found  a  country  of  their  own — a 
country  of  draft-evaders ! 

As  contemptible  as  these  persons  seemed  to  me  there  was 
another  class  for  which  I  had  an  even  greater  abomination 
— a  class,  as  I  now  see  conditions,  that  not  only  threatens 
the  life  of  our  country  but  of  what  we  call  Christian  civi- 
lization. That  class  against  which  the  most  beloved  of 
our  Presidents  never  ceased  to  thunder — the  intentionally 
childless  married  woman. 

There  was  never  a  day  that  we,  handling  the  papers  of 
draft-evaders,  did  not  see  and  recognize  her  as  she  stalked, 
marched,  waddled,  or  blew  in  on  us — the  contemptuous, 
eyebrow-lifting  type,  the  I-know-my-rights-and-I'll-have- 
'em  type,  the  life-is-so-hard  type,  and  the  airy-fairy-Lillian 
type.  They  all  came,  singly,  in  couples,  and  occasionally 
in  trios,  all  on  the  same  business — "to  see  about  my  hus- 
band's case." 

Well  do  I  remember  the  first  of  this  class  that  fell  to  my 
lot.  She  blew  in  like  a  slender,  perfectly  equipped  racing- 
sloop,  with  one  tall  billowy  sail.  In  spite  of  her  slender- 
ness  there  was  a  suggestion  of  Cleopatra — her  slow  smile, 
her  slumberous  dark  eyes,  which,  when  you  crossed  the 
wishes  of  their  owner,  became  pin-points,  of  amber  flame 
behind  narrow  slits. 


168   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

By  nature  I  am  as  soft  as  a  man  about  good-looking 
women.  This  girl  was  beautiful.  She  said  she  felt  sure 
that  I  would  be  able  to  help  her.  Odd  how  one  could  al- 
ways recognize  a  congenial  person,  she  added.  And  the 
smile  with  which  she  made  this  assertion  was  a  poem,  and 
the  glance  of  her  wonderful  slumberous  eyes  might  have 
made  any  man  feel  sure  that  he  could  write  an  epic.  Of 
course  had  she  not  wished  my  services  she  would  never  have 
wasted  either  on — a  woman. 

Her  husband,  poor  dear  boy,  wished  to  go  to  the  front. 
She  had  coaxed  him  not  to  enlist,  even  gone  so  far  as  to 
say  that  if  he  did  not  enlist  and  should  be  drafted,  she 
would  raise  no  objection.  It  seemed  so  certain  that  he 
would  not  be  caught,  so  many  men  were  not,  you  know. 
Of  course  a  promise  given  under  such  circumstances  could 
not  be  binding.  She  had  had  her  lawyer  draw  up  the  neces- 
sary papers  asking  her  husband's  exemption. 

"We  wives  do  have  some  rights,  you  know!"  she  ex- 
claimed, at  the  end  of  her  story. 

"You  have  been  married  five  years  and  your  husband's 
salary  is  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year — surely  you  have 
saved  enough  to  supplement  the  government's  allowance 
to  the  wife  of  a  soldier,"  I  told  her,  for  I  longed  to  help  the 
man  in  his  determination  to  fight  for  his  country,  yet  at 
the  same  time,  I  did  not  wish  in  any  way  to  mar  the  dainty 
perfection  of  this  beautiful  creature. 

"Saved!"  Another  slow  smile  as  her  body  swayed 
gracefully.  "You  have  never  lived  in  a  hotel,  my  dear. 
Saving  is  impossible.  What  they  don't  take  from  you  on 
your  bills  they  do  in  tips.  It  is  terrible !  Why—  She 
paused,  glanced  me  over  as  though  taking  my  measure, 
then  bent  toward  me  and  lowered  her  voice  to  a  confiding 
lower  tone.  "Even  the  clothes  on  my  back  are  not  paid 
for." 

"But  your  children?"  I  demanded,  for  I  was  shocked, 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        169 

and  my  voice  showed  it.  "Surely  you  should  save  for  your 
children." 

Her  eyes  flashed  out  at  me — two  sharp  rays  of  amber 
flame  between  slitted  lids. 

" Children?"  she  purred.  "I've  too  much  sense  for  that, 
to  destroy  my  best  asset — my  figure." 

Among  the  many  wives-have-their-rights  individuals  who 
paid  us  personal  calls  was  one  who  waddled  in  at  the  lunch- 
hour,  when  Miss  Sneezet  and  I  chanced  to  be  the  only  ones 
in  the  department.  She  was  short,  plump,  and  wore  ex- 
pensive clothes.  She  had  come  to  find  out  what  she  could 
do  about  her  husband,  she  explained  to  Miss  Sneezet. 
He'd  been  drafted,  and  she  wanted  to  make  sure  that  he 
would  pay  her  the  alimony  awarded  her  by  the  courts. 

Miss  Sneezet  reminded  her  that  the  government  made 
certain  provisions  for  dependent  wives.  Oh,  yes,  she 
knew  about  that,  this  woman  replied,  but  it  was  such  a 
small  amount.  The  courts  had  allowed  her  thirty  dollars 
a  week  alimony;  if  the  government  took  her  husband  away 
it  should  not  only  make  good  that  amount,  but  should  see 
that  she  got  her  husband's  insurance.  Suppose  he  got 
killed,  then  her  alimony  would  stop  entirely.  Yes,  it  was 
only  right  that  the  government  should  make  it  up  to  her 
and  guaranty  her  against  loss.  A  wife  had  some  rights, 
and  she  wanted  hers. 

"Perhaps  your  husband  had  his  insurance  made  payable 
to  his  children,"  Miss  Sneezet  suggested. 

"Children!"  the  woman  cried,  her  eyes  round  with  sur- 
prise. "He  ain't  got  no  children.  I  never  had  none,  and 
he  ain't  never  married  again." 

"Suppose  you  give  me  your  name,"  Miss  Sneezet  finally 
suggested,  as  a  means  of  getting  rid  of  her.  When  the 
name  was  given  Miss  Sneezet  glanced  up  from  her  writing- 
pad  and  her  eyes  were  round  with  astonishment.  "Mrs. 
John  Tooler!  But — but  you  gave  your  husband's  name 
as  Henry  Madden." 


170      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"Well,  you  see  he  ain't  exactly  my  husband,  not  now. 
He  used  to  be,  but  I  divorced  him  before  I  married  John," 
the  woman  explained,  and  she  was  not  the  least  bit  abashed. 

When  one  considers  there  is  no  reason  why  she  should 
have  felt  abashed.  Such  cases  are  so  common  that  the 
woman  not  only  continues  to  demand  her  pound  of  flesh 
after  remarriage,  but  should  the  earnings  of  the  first  man 
materially  increase,  she  goes  to  court  and  asks  for  a  larger 
share.  Nine  cases  out  of  ten  she  gets  it.  And  why  should- 
n't she?  Having  gone  through  the  marriage  ceremony 
not  only  prevents  her  from  being  classed  with  her  twin 
sister,  the  woman  of  the  street,  but  secures  for  her  a  share 
of  any  worldly  goods  that  may  come  into  the  possession 
of  the  man  until  death  them  do  part.  If  death  should  part 
them? — there  she  stands,  next  in  order  after  the  under- 
taker and  the  doctor,  demanding  her  dower  rights.  Wives 
have  rights ! 

Having  stood  the  strain — reading  the  papers  of  draft- 
evaders  and  listening  to  the  stories  of  the  daughters  of  a 
horse-leech — until  I  longed  to  get  off  the  earth,  I  asked  to 
be  transferred  to  the  filing  department.  There  my  boss 
was  an  ex-milliner. 

"I  had  a  good  little  business,"  she  confided  to  me  one 
day  at  lunch.  "Five  girls  workin'  for  me,  and  a  boy  to 
deliver.  The  war  wiped  me  out."  She  paused,  picked  at 
her  paper  napkin  with  her  fork,  then  went  on.  "If  I'd 
only  known  enough  to  stop  when  trade  first  begun  to  fall 
off!"  She  paused  again,  this  time  staring  at  me  in  a  sort 
of  breathless  amazement.  "I  even  used  mother's  burial 
money — payin'  off  my  girls.  She  made  me  take  it — we 
was  both  so  sure  the  war  would  soon  be  over." 

"You're  replacing  it  now,"  I  suggested,  trying  to  make 
my  tone  consoling — in  the  tenements  for  a  child  to  use  a 
parent's  burial  fund  is  a  mortal  sin. 

An  expression  of  satisfaction,  almost  blissful  in  its  depths, 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        171 

spread  over  her  face  and  seemed  to  strengthen  her  whole 
person.  "I'm  doing  it  though  there  isn't  any  need. 
Mother's  makin'  bigger  money  than  me.  She  is  company- 
companion  to  a  rich  lady — don't  have  to  do  no  work  of 
any  kind,  just  walks  out  with  the  old  lady  and  helps  her  in 
and  out  the  limmossin  when  they  goes  drivin'.  The  trained 
nurse  who  waited  on  the  old  lady  went  to  France." 

"Does  she  give  your  mother  the  same  wages?"  I  asked. 

"Sure.  Forty  a  week.  You  oughter  see  the  eats  she 
brings  home  nights.  Last  night  she  had  a  baked  chicken 
— only  the  wings  and  a  little  of  the  breast  had  been  cut  off. 
The  cook  told  mother  she  might  as  well  take  it — the  help 
was  tired  of  chicken.  Somehow — "  She  paused  thought- 
fully, a  troubled  look  clouding  her  eyes,  then  added  wist- 
fully: "Somehow  I  can't  just  fancy  folks  havin'  good  things 
to  eat  so  constant  that  they'd  get  tired  of  baked  chicken, 
can  you?" 

In  the  filing  department  my  next-seat  neighbor  was  the 
heir  apparent  of  the  Irish  throne.  Having  bossed  the 
princess  royal  of  the  same  country  while  at  Sutton  House, 
I  bore  with  equanimity  this  close  association  with  such  an 
exalted  personage.  Of  course  I  was  careful  to  defer  to  his 
judgment  on  all  matters  of  importance — such  as  the  proper 
length  of  a  lady's  skirt,  when  one  gentleman  should  knock 
another  gentleman  down,  just  how  drunk  a  gentleman  or  a 
lady  might  be  permitted  to  get  at  their  grandmother's  wake, 
and  politics.  Yes,  of  course  politics.  All  rightful  heirs  to 
the  Irish  throne  whom  I  have  met,  and  I  have  met  thou- 
sands, have  talked  politics.  That  I  take  it,  talking  poli- 
tics, is  the  surest  sign  of  their  royal  blood. 

Just  at  this  time  the  state  and  city  elections  were  brew- 
ing hi  New  York.  John  Purroy  Mitchel  was  standing  for 
re-election  as  mayor  of  the  Greater  City.  One  day,  wish- 
ing to  keep  in  touch  with  the  thoughts  of  my  royal  neigh- 
bor, I  asked  if  he  thought  Mr.  Mitchel  would  win. 


172   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"Win!"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  haughty  scorn.  "He'll 
be  snowed  under."  Then  he  added  reprovingly:  "You 
should  know  that." 

"How  should  I  know?"  I  inquired,  meek  though  puzzled. 

"Every  Catholic  has  been  instructed  to  vote  against 
the  scoundrel,"  he  informed  me. 

"Ah!"  I  exclaimed,  for  I  was  genuinely  startled. 

"That  order  came  straight  from  Rome,"  he  assured  me, 
in  a  lowered  tone.  "If  your  brother  lived  here  he  would 
have  told  you." 

I  stared  at  him,  and  he,  misinterpreting  my  expression, 
smiled  jubilantly  as  he  nodded  his  head  in  emphasis. 

"I  wonder  if  either  of  my  three  brothers  could  have  told 
me?"  I  questioned,  and  I  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"My  brothers  are  all  Americans." 

"I'm  an  American,"  he  asserted  indignantly.  "I  was 
born " 

"I  don't  care  where  you  were  born,"  I  interrupted.  "No 
one,  man  or  woman,  who  takes  orders  from  a  power  outside 
the  United  States  is  an  American.  A  person  who  takes 
orders  from  Rome  is  no  more  to  be  trusted  than  one  who 
takes  orders  from  Berlin.  I'll  not  sit  by  either." 

Grabbing  my  file  in  one  hand  and  my  chair  in  the  other, 
I  marched  to  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Two  days  later 
this  man  was  caught  on  the  roof  caressing  one  of  the  young- 
est of  the  girls  in  our  department — she  had  been  taken 
from  school  to  help  her  parents  support  the  family.  What 
the  men  employees  did  to  this  fellow  I  never  knew.  He 
did  not  return,  not  even  to  finish  that  day. 

For  one  thing  I  am  devoutly  thankful — that  Polly  Pres- 
ton is  an  American.  It  must  be  the  most  stupid  of  tasks 
to  write  about  a  human  being  who  is  forbidden  to  think 
for  him  or  her  self.  I  had  as  soon  write  about  a  white  bait. 

During  the  later  part  of  September,  while  still  working 
for  the  District  Board  for  the  City  of  New  York,  I  moved 


FIGHT  TO  KEEP  FROM  FIGHTING        173 

my  belongings  from  the  Jane  Leonard  to  the  top  floor  of  a 
rooming-house  in  Greenwich  Village — in  the  same  house 
and  on  the  same  floor  with  Hildegarde  Hook.  Having  met 
this  young  woman  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  and  learned  from 
herself  that  she  was  a  writer,  and  from  the  Association  that 
she  was  a  problem,  I  decided  to  put  her  on  my  list  of  those 
and  that  to  be  investigated. 

Early  in  October  the  workers  for  the  District  Board 
began  to  be  laid  off.  When  my  turn  came  I  was  not  sorry. 
Jobs  were  plentiful,  wages  on  the  rise,  and  I  was  anxious 
to  try  another  field. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE" 

THE  day  after  leaving  the  District  Board  for  the  City 
of  New  York  I  called  at  the  employment  department  of 
the  Y.  W.  The  head  of  the  department  greeted  me  cor- 
dially. She  had  plenty  of  jobs — up- town,  down-town,  in 
all  the  suburbs.  Reading  her  card  catalogue  of  openings 
she  stated  that  the  Suffrage  Party  was  offering  ten  dollars 
a  week  for  canvassers,  to  work  from  five  to  nine  evenings. 

"Could  you  place  me  where  I  would  not  be  recognized?" 
I  inquired. 

"Know  many  persons  on  the  upper  West  Side?"  she 
asked.  I  shook  my  head.  "Ever  see  Miss  Madeline 
Marks?"  Again  I  shook  my  head.  "She's  in  charge  at 
the  West  78th  Street  branch.  She's  been  begging  for  help. 
I'll  give  you  a  card " 

The  telephone  at  her  elbow  rang  vigorously.  She  took 
off  the  receiver  and  applied  it  to  her  ear,  all  the  while  filling 
in  a  card  introducing  me  to  Miss  Madeline  Marks. 

"Daskam  &  Howe?  Yes,  I  remember.  You  want  ad- 
dressers? Piece-work?  One  and  a  quarter  a  thousand? 
No,  I  can't  send  you  any  one  at  that."  The  secretary's 
tone  was  final.  "One  fifty  is  the  least  they  are  taking. 
Most  demand  two.  Are  they  getting  it?"  A  satisfied 
chuckle.  "I've  listed  about  four  vacancies  to  every  one 
I've  been  able  to  fill.  Of  course  if  any  one  comes  in — 
What's  that? — one  dollar  seventy-five?" 

"I'll  take  it,"  I  whispered.  "Tell  them  you'll  be  able 
to  send  one." 

"I  may  be  able  to  send  you  one  or  two  at  one  seventy- 
five,"  she  called  over  the  wire.  "Of  course  I'll  do  the  best 

174 


"MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE"      175 

I  can  for  you.  Good-by."  As  she  hung  up  the  receiver 
she  turned  to  me.  "I  was  in  hopes  you'd  be  willing  to 
help  the  Suffrage  Party  out,"  she  told  me,  and  it  was  plainly 
evident  that  she  was  disappointed.  "This  is  the  last  week 
before  the  election,  and " 

"I'm  going  to  take  both  positions,"  I  hastened  to  inter- 
rupt. "My  first  job  was  with  Daskam  &  Howe — mail- 
order house.  The  manager  of  the  addressers  is  a  nice 
little  man;  he'll  let  me  get  off  afternoons  in  time  to  canvass 
for  suffrage." 

She  cut  her  eyes  at  me  and  smiled. 

"Any  of  them  will  do  that  now,"  she  assured  me. 
"They'll  let  you  do  about  anything  you  want,  they  are  so 
put  to  it  to  get  workers.  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  work 
for  suffrage.  Do  you  think  there's  any  chance  of  our 
winning?" 

"If  I  work  for  it— yes." 

She  turned  on  me  and  looked  me  up  and  down. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"There's  a  sort  of  superstition  at  home — however  hope- 
less a  cause  may  appear,  if  I  get  busy  and  work  for  it  it 
wins." 

"You  believe  it?" 

"Why  not?"  I  parried.  "We  all  thought  President 
Wilson's  chance  for  re-election  was  hopeless.  At  the 
eleventh  hour  I  had  myself  made  vice-president  of  a  Wood- 
row  Wilson  League  and  got  busy." 

"That  was  a  close  shave!"  she  breathed. 

"My  work  saved  him,"  I  laughed. 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  she  exclaimed,  pressing  two  cards 
of  introduction  into  my  hand.  "Get  busy  and  work  for 
suffrage." 

Within  half  an  hour  I  presented  myself  at  the  employees' 
entrance  of  Daskam  &  Howe.  Instead  of  the  kindly  little 
manager  a  young  woman  with  a  face  like  an  Indian  toma- 


176      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

hawk  received  me.  Being  among  the  late-comers,  I  was 
seated  in  the  room  in  which  the  buyers  of  the  firm  had 
their  desks.  All  these  buyers,  including  corsets  and  women's 
underwear,  were  men.  At  least  that  was  the  condition  the 
day  that  I  began  work.  A  day  or  so  later  a  woman,  the 
only  woman  employed  by  the  firm  as  a  buyer,  returned 
from  her  vacation. 

"Hello,  fellers!"  she  called,  stopping  hi  the  door  on  her 
return.  "Damn  busy,  I  see,  chewing  the  rag.  You're  a 
hell  of  a  lot."  And  after  this  a  long  string  of  oaths. 

In  the  use  of  swear  words  I  had  imagined  the  men  buy- 
ers unsurpassed.  They  couldn't  touch  that  girl.  It  did 
not  seem  possible  for  her  to  open  her  mouth  without  letting 
out  a  string  of  oaths.  She  swore  at  her  fellow  buyers,  at 
the  men  and  women  who  came  bringing  samples  from 
manufacturers.  She  swore  at  members  of  the  firm,  at  me, 
and  all  the  other  addressers,  but  most  of  all  she  swore  at 
the  telephone. 

Strange  to  say,  the  men  buyers  were  shocked.  So  long 
as  she  was  in  the  room  they  acted  like  a  handful  of  mice  in 
the  presence  of  a  cat.  Puzzled  by  this  I  asked  the  girl 
with  the  tomahawk  face  for  an  explanation. 

"Who,  Miss  Sojowski?"  she  replied.  "She's  got  these 
men  beat  to  a  finish.  That's  what's  the  matter.  She's 
buyer  for  women  and  girls'  suits,  hats,  and  coats — four  jobs 
in  one.  She's  been  with  the  firm  five  years,  and  she's  never 
made  a  mistake — all  her  styles  sell,  no  left-overs.  Sure  she 
makes  big  money.  Three  times  as  much  as  any  of  these 
little  simps  pulls  down."  She  glared  at  the  men  buyers, 
who  could  not  have  avoided  hearing  every  word  she  said. 

My  next-seat  neighbor  at  this  place  was  a  young  man 
from  Canada.  He  spent  his  time  breathing  darkly  hideous 
threats  against  the  Germans,  what  he  would  do  once  he 
"got  across."  Bit  by  bit  his  fellow  workers  learned  that 
soon  after  England  entered  the  war  he  had  induced  the 


"MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE"      177 

sixteen-year-old  daughter  of  his  employer,  a  prosperous 
fanner,  to  elope  with  him.  When,  in  spite  of  his  marriage 
he  was  called  to  the  colors,  he  eloped  alone  to  the  United 
States,  and  had  been  living  in  New  York  under  an  assumed 
name. 

It  was  a  shame,  he  declared,  that  a  young  fellow  of  his 
ability  should  be  forced  to  address  envelopes.  He  had  ex- 
pected to  get  a  position  as  manager  of  some  millionaire's 
farm — a  sort  of  all-pay-and-no-work  job.  He  would  have 
got  it,  too,  he  assured  us,  if  the  people  in  the  States  were 
not  so  prejudiced  against  the  Irish.  Soon  as  would-be  em- 
ployers learned  that  he  was  not  born  in  Canada,  they 
turned  against  him,  he  asserted — gave  the  position  to  a 
"dirty  Dago"  or  a  man  of  some  other  inferior  race. 

Recalling  the  abundance  of  king-descended  men  and 
women  of  his  race,  I  inquired  about  his  forebears.  Sure 
enough,  he  gave  me  a  long  list  of  kings  and  saints,  and  as- 
sured us  all  that  only  the  tyranny  of  England  prevented 
him  from  living  in  a  palace  without  having  to  "turn  a  hand." 

The  day  that  the  addressers  were  paid  off  this  slacker 
suggested  to  a  lame  man  who  sat  across  the  table  from  him 
that  it  would  be  a  friendly  thing  for  him  to  start  a  subscrip- 
tion— get  up  enough  money  to  pay  his,  the  slacker's,  rail- 
road fare  back  to  Canada. 

"If  your  wife's  daddy  is  so  rich,  why  don'ii  you  ask  him 
to  send  you  the  money?"  the  lame  man,  a  middle-aged 
Jew,  asked. 

"Him!"  the  young,  healthy  Irish-Canadian  exclaimed 
contemptuously.  "He  don't  want  I  should  come  back. 
Both  of  his  boys  were  killed  by  the  Germans.  Now  he's 
trying  to  turn  my  wife  against  me,  saying  I  deserted  her." 

"Well,  didn't  you?"  the  lame  man  demanded.  "You 
told  me  your  child  was  more  than  a  year  old,  and  you'd 
never  seen  it.  You  said  you  had  never  got  enough  ahead 
to  send  your  wife  money." 


178   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"She  don't  need  I  should/'  the  slacker  replied.  "Her 
father's  richer  than  butter,  and  she's  all  he's  got  now." 

The  lame  man  struggled  to  his  feet  and  lifted  his  crutch. 

"I'm  a  poor  man,"  he  said,  and  taking  his  pay-envelope 
from  his  pocket  he  held  it  up,  "but  if  I  had  a  million  dollars 
in  this  I  wouldn't  give  you  a  nickel.  My  father  brought 
us  from  Poland  when  I  was  ten  years  old.  When  this  war 
came  my  brother,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  was  the  only 
one  able  to  fight.  My  father  and  I  promised  to  care  for 
his  wife  and  four  children." 

The  lame  man  slipped  his  pay-envelope  back  into  his 
pocket,  then  fitted  the  crutch  under  his  arm.  You  might 
have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

"Your  brother'll  come  back,"  a  woman  addresser  as- 
sured him  hopefully. 

The  lame  man  straightened  up  and  swung  himself  around 
on  his  crutch. 

"Less  than  two  months  after  he  went  away  we  got  the 
news — he  had  been  killed  in  battle."  He  turned  and  faced 
the  slacker.  "My  brother  was  a  good  husband,"  he  said; 
"he  loved  his  children."  Clutching  his  hat  and  his  little 
lunch-box  in  one  hand,  he  stumped  out. 

This  pay-day  brought  me  a  real  surprise.  Instead  of 
counting  the  envelopes  I  learned  that  they  reckoned  by 
weight.  My  three  days'  work,  according  to  my  own  count, 
amounted  to  five  thousand  envelopes.  Soon  after  the 
basket  in  which  they  had  been  packed  was  taken  out,  the 
girl  with  a  face  like  a  tomahawk  hurried  in  and  informed 
me  that  there  were  only  three  thousand  and  three  hundred. 
Against  the  advice  of  my  fellow  addressers  I  demanded  a 
recount — perhaps  I  should  say  a  count,  for  they  had  been 
weighed,  never  counted. 

After  considerable  bluster  my  work  was  turned  over  to 
another  young  girl.  In  the  first  box  she  found  eighty-one 
while  I  found  one  hundred.  On  a  second  counting  she 


"MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE"      179 

also  found  one  hundred.  The  difference  in  the  second  box 
was  even  greater.  After  that  she  evidently  decided  it  was 
a  hopeless  task — trying  to  cheat  me.  According  to  her 
final  count,  I  had  addressed  five  thousand  five  hundred  and 
fifty-seven.  I  was  paid  for  five  thousand. 

Beyond  a  weak  protest  the  day  that  I  began  work  for 
Daskam  &  Howe  the  girl  manager  of  the  addressing  de- 
partment made  no  objection  to  my  stopping  work  every 
day  at  four  o'clock.  That  gave  me  time  to  eat  a  second 
cold  lunch,  and  report  at  the  West  Side  headquarters  of 
the  Suffrage  Party  by  five.  When  applying  for  the  posi- 
tion I  told  Miss  Madeline  Marks  that  I  would  be  glad  to 
be  assigned  to  the  tenement  section  of  her  district.  There- 
upon she  assured  me  that  she  felt  sure  that  I  would  be  more 
useful  on  Riverside  Drive  and  the  adjacent  side  streets. 
So  taking  a  list  of  voters  to  be  seen,  and  a  package  of  little 
yellow  pledge-slips,  I  sallied  forth. 

The  first  voter  on  whom  I  called,  like  other  individuals 
whom  custom  clothes  in  trousers,  suffered  from  the  halluci- 
nation of  thinking  himself  a  man.  When  I  opened  the 
conversation  by  saying  that  I  had  feared  not  finding  him 
at  home  so  early,  five  o'clock,  he  explained  that,  being  a 
"gentleman  of  leisure,"  he  was  always  at  home  to  charm- 
ing ladies.  Being  aware  that  the  race  of  fools  had  not 
been  entirely  exterminated,  I  allowed  his  explanation,  along 
with  the  accompanying  smirk,  to  pass  unnoticed,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  business. 

At  the  mention  of  suffrage  his  back  stiffened  and  his 
eyes  flashed  green.  When  I  offered  him  one  of  the  yellow 
pledge-slips,  asked  him  to  sign  it,  he  broke  forth: 

"You  women!"  he  spit  at  me.  "You've  lost  all  sense 
of  decency.  Do  you  realize  that  our  country  is  at  war? 
Do  you  realize  that  men  are  dying?  Do  you  realize  it? 
Do  you  realize  it?" 

"I  realize  all  of  it,"  I  told  him,  rising  to  my  feet,  and  I 


180   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

think  my  eyes  flashed  green.  "  Besides,  I  realize  that  every 
man  at  the  front — fighting,  dying,  and  dead — was  brought 
into  the  world  by  a  woman,  who  went  through  the  jaws  of 
death,  suffered  the  pangs  of  hell,  to  give  him  birth."  I 
walked  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  then  turned  and 
glared  at  him,  standing  speechless  beside  his  chair.  * '  There's 
something  else  I  realize — the  pity  of  it  that  a  man  like  you 
has  to  be  born  of  a  woman,  when  you  might  just  as  well 
have  been  hatched  out  of  a  goose-egg." 

The  footman,  whom  I  had  looked  upon  as  an  impassive 
piece  of  furniture,  followed  me  out  on  the  stoop. 

"If  you'll  give  me  one,  lady,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  glad  to 
sign  it  and  send  it  hi  by  mail." 

Halting  on  the  corner  I  took  myself  to  task.  I  admitted 
without  regret  that  I  had  inherited  all  the  temper  of  my 
Huguenot  and  Scot  ancestors.  What  I  did  regret  was 
having  lost  control  of  that  temper,  acting,  as  I  considered, 
like  a  shrew.  The  following  afternoon  Miss  Marks  showed 
me  two  signed  slips  mailed  from  the  same  address — master 
and  footman  had  pledged  themselves  to  vote  for  the  suf- 
frage amendment. 

"Lose  your  temper ! — act  like  a  shrew !"  Miss  Marks  ex- 
claimed, when  I  described  the  incident.  "Do  anything  to 
get  results  like  that.  Why,  that  man  has  been  for  years 
a  violent  Anti." 

It  was  an  Anti  who  converted  me,  made  a  living,  working 
suffragist  of  me.  The  scene  of  my  conversion  was  the  State 
House  of  Massachusetts.  The  Suffrage  Party  was  making 
its  annual  appeal  to  the  lawmakers  of  their  commonwealth. 
I  attended  the  meeting  because  of  a  promise  made,  years 
before,  to  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  not  because  of  my  in- 
terest in  suffrage. 

While  in  college  Mrs.  Howe  had  asked  me  to  attend  such 
a  meeting,  and  I,  because  it  was  easier  to  say  yes  than  no, 
had  promised  to  do  so.  Not  having  any  interest  in  the 


"MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE"      181 

question,  I  forgot  all  about  it  until  I  learned  from  the 
Transcript  that  the  meeting  had  taken  place,  and  that  Mrs. 
Howe  had  been  the  chief  speaker.  Having  been  brought 
up  hi  the  faith  that  no  well-bred  man  or  woman  will  in- 
tentionally break  a  promise,  I  hastened  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Howe  and  apologize.  I  told  her  the  truth — that  I  had 
forgotten. 

As  always,  Mrs.  Howe  was  kind  and  sympathetic.  When 
I  was  telling  her  good-by,  while  she  was  still  holding  my 
hands,  she  asked  me  to  give  her  another  promise — to  attend 
such  a  meeting  at  the  State  House  at  my  earliest  oppor- 
tunity. That  opportunity  came  while  I  was  taking  a 
graduate  course  at  Radcliffe — Professor  Baker's  course  in 
playwriting. 

Learning  from  the  morning  paper  that  the  Suffrage  Party 
was  to  make  its  annual  appeal  in  the  State  House  that 
afternoon,  quite  a  little  while  after  the  appointed  hour  I 
drifted  in.  It  was  a  long  room  with  high  ceiling,  and  I 
knew  that  the  broad  windows  on  the  side  facing  the  door 
by  which  I  entered  overlooked  Charlestown  and  the  Charles 
River. 

That  side,  the  Charles  River  side,  was  packed — every 
seat  taken,  and  numbers  of  women  standing  against  the 
wall.  On  the  side  next  the  door  there  were  a  good  many 
vacant  seats,  and  without  giving  the  matter  a  thought,  I 
took  my  place  beside  a  woman,  who,  catching  my  eye, 
made  room  for  me.  There  were  several  speeches  for  and 
against. 

Then  a  little  wisp  of  a  woman  got  up.  She  had  the  face 
of  a  blighted  new-born  baby — wrinkled  and  old  as  the  human 
race.  And  hi  her  eyes  there  shone  the  patient  acceptance 
of  the  curse:  "The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  on 
their  children,  to  the  third  and  fourth  generation." 

She  was  from  Lawrence,  Massachusetts,  and  had  been 
working  in  the  mills  since  she  was  ten  years  old.  For  years 


182      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

she  had  supported  her  delicate  mother  and  her  younger 
brothers  and  sisters.  These  younger  ones,  having  been 
forced  into  the  mills  before  they  were  strong  enough,  had 
sickened  and  dropped  off  like  so  many  flies.  So  at  last  she 
was  left  the  sole  support  of  a  bedridden  mother. 

She  told  of  conditions  in  the  mills,  and  I  knew  she  spoke 
the  truth.  For  it  was  soon  after  the  notorious  "  Lawrence 
strike,"  during  which  I  had  journeyed  down  from  Cam- 
bridge and  spent  a  week  in  the  mill  town.  This  ill-fed  little 
feminine  creature,  who  had  never  known  a  care-free  day  in 
her  whole  life,  ended  her  statement  with  the  appeal: 

"Gentlemen,  you  tell  me  a  woman's  place  is  the  home. 
Ah,  gentlemen,  if  I  only  had  a  home  I'd  be  too  glad  to 
stay  hi  it.  I  know  you  can't  give  me  a  home — there  are 
too  many  like  me.  But  you  can  give  me  the  ballot."  She 
bent  toward  the  men  on  the  rostrum,  the  law-makers. 
"Please  give  it  to  me,"  she  pleaded,  her  little  voice  so  husky 
that  it  was  hardly  more  than  a  hoarse  whisper.  "Please 
give  me  the  ballot.  Then  I  can  vote,  stand  a  chance  of 
getting  my  work  hours  limited.  You  don't  let  'em  work 
a  horse  day  and  night,  gentlemen.  Give  me  a  horse's 
chance.  Give  me  the  ballot,  gentlemen." 

There  may  have  been  applause  when  she  slipped  back 
into  her  seat.  But  if  so  I  was  unconscious  of  it.  My  heart 
was  like  a  throbbing,  aching  tooth  in  my  bosom.  Was 
there  really  a  God  in  heaven? 

Then  across  the  aisle  from  the  little  woman  a  man  stepped 
out.  Such  a  man  as  would  make  you  feel  sure  that  at  his 
birth  his  mother  might  have  proclaimed  with  pride:  "Be- 
hold, I  have  brought  forth  a  man  child;  a  man  made  in  the 
image  of  his  Maker." 

From  the  tips  of  his  polished  shoes  to  the  crown  of  his 
waving  iron-gray  hair  he  personified  "the  best" — the  best 
breed,  the  best  care,  the  best  food,  the  best  education,  the 
best  fashion,  always  the  best  and  only  the  best.  The 


"MORE  DEADLY  THAN  THE  MALE"      183 

jewel  in  his  scarf-pin  or  one  of  the  rings  on  his  hand  would 
have  made  the  puny  factory  worker  comfortable  for  the 
balance  of  her  days,  would  have  given  her  a  home. 

The  way  he  railed  at  her — that  great,  strong,  well-fed, 
handsomely  dressed,  handsome  man.  He  not  only  shook 
his  finger  in  her  face,  but  he  threatened  her  and  all  suffra- 
gists against  following  the  example  of  the  militant  English- 
women, who  he  claimed  had  poured  acid  in  the  letter-boxes 
of  London.  While  I  did  not  see  him  actually  grit  his  teeth, 
that  was  his  manner — gritting  his  teeth  and  foaming  at  the 
mouth  with  fury. 

At  the  end  he  gathered  himself  together,  raising  himself 
to  his  full  height,  and  proclaimed  his  contempt  for  the 
women  before  him.  The  "ladies"  of  his  acquaintance  not 
only  would  refuse  to  vote  were  the  ballot  given  them,  but 
they  would  draw  their  skirts  aside  to  keep  from  coming 
in  contact  with  such  despicable  representatives  of  their 
sex. 

When  he  finished,  the  women  around  me  clapped  and 
shouted  like  mad.  Amazed,  I  turned  to  the  woman  next 
me  and  asked  what  she  meant  by  it. 

"He's  on  our  side,"  she  told  me,  her  face  glowing  with 
satisfied  pride.  "He  is  our  chief  speaker.  Applaud  him. 
Applaud  him." 

I  saw  a  great  light.  In  my  stupidity  I  had  taken  a  seat 
among  the  Antis.  Rising  I  crossed  over  the  aisle.  There 
was  no  seat,  so  I  took  my  stand  at  the  back  of  the  room 
against  the  wall.  A  hand  reached  back  and  touched  me. 

"I  recognized  you,"  a  sweet  voice  whispered,  "and  I  knew 
you  had  gotten  in  the  wrong  pew."  It  was  a  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe. 

As  a  result  of  that  man's  harangue  a  few  months  later  I 
travelled  more  than  one  hundred  miles  to  march  in  the 
suffrage  parade  through  Boston.  Now  I  not  only  worked 
for  the  sake  of  rubbing  my  rabbit's  foot  and  giving  them 


184      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

the  victory,  but  for  the  sake  of  getting  behind  the  scenes 
and  learning  by  my  own  personal  observations  whether  or 
no  the  women  leaders  of  the  party  were  competent  execu- 
tives. 

I  held  a  good  many  positions  during  my  four  years  in  the 
underbrush.  In  none  did  I  find  more  competent  leader- 
ship. In  none  did  I  ever  see  such  indomitable  pluck  and 
perseverance,  such  undaunted  courage.  It  takes  courage, 
real  courage,  to  work  on  regardless  of  insult  and  flattery. 
Especially  when  the  insults  and  sneers  come  from  those 
with  whom  you  are  the  most  closely  associated.  It  takes 
pluck  and  perseverance  to  lay  siege  and  to  hammer  and 
hammer  and  hammer  to  break  down  prejudice  in  small 
minds.  That  is  what  being  a  leader  of  the  Suffrage  Party 
meant. 

At  the  end  of  my  week  I  was  paid  the  promised  ten 
dollars  as  promptly  as  I  would  have  been  by  any  other 
first-class  business  organization.  On  Monday  evening  I 
marched  in  the  last  suffrage  parade  in  New  York  City, 
from  the  West  Side  headquarters  to  Durland's.  Much  to 
the  surprise  of  the  marchers  about  me  I  insisted  on  carry- 
ing both  a  heavy  banner  and  a  transparency. 

The  day  after  that  election  which  gave  the  women  of 
New  York  State  the  ballot  I  went  to  work  for  the  Interna- 
tional Young  Men's  Christian  Association — proof-reader 
in  the  multigraph  department,  otherwise  known  as  the 
"guts"  of  the  Association.  Through  our  hands  passed 
every  order,  every  report,  every  circular  of  every  sort  be- 
fore it  was  given  to  the  public.  Down  in  two  little  dark 
basement  rooms  we  worked  under  electricity  from  eight- 
thirty  until — many  times  after  10  P.  M. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
STAMPING-GROUND  OF  THE  MONKEY-PEOPLE 

"IT  was  colossal!"  Hildegarde  Hook  panted  boisterously, 
as  she  burst  into  my  room  about  four  o'clock  one  morning 
during  the  Christmas  holidays.  "My  ideal  marriage — 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  in  a  dark  church  with  only  the  min- 
ister, the  two  contracting  parties,  and  her  best  friend 
present.  And  Joe  Ellen  didn't  even  change  her  dress — 
didn't  even  sew  up  the  slit  in  the  back  of  her  skirt."  Here 
she  stopped  panting  long  enough  to  laugh  loud  and  long, 
after  the  manner  of  Greenwich  Villagers  too  self-consciously 
innocent  to  consider  the  sleeper  in  the  next  room.  "Harris 
had  on  his  old  yellow-and-purple  Mackinaw,  out  at  both 
elbows,  and  I  think — yes,  I'm  sure,  the  pants  he  had  on 
were  the  pair  given  him  by  my  burglar."  Here  she  jounced 
herself  down  on  the  side  of  my  bed,  and  drawing  the  pins 
from  her  hat,  cast  it  on  the  top  of  my  bureau.  The  pins 
she  stuck  into  the  mattress.  "Now,  dear,  don't  you  agree 
with  me  that  it  was  an  ideal  marriage  ? — that  is,  of  course, 
since  our  atrocious  laws  force  us  to  go  through  that  silly 
ceremony.  Now  don't  you  think  it  an  ideal  way  for  two 
poets  to  be  married  ? — so  characteristic,  so  filled  with  color. 
Two  struggling  young  geniuses!" 

"Is  Harris  a  poet?"  I  questioned,  as,  having  edged  as 
far  away  from  her  as  the  wall  would  permit,  I  sat  up  in 
bed.  "I've  read  several  of  Joe  Ellen's  verses  in  the  maga- 
zines. What's  Harris's  other  name?  What  has  he 
written?" 

"Casey — Harris  Casey.  Such  a  romantic  name!  Two 
epics  and  no  end  of  lyrics.  Jack  Harland  says  that  Harris's 

185 


186   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

longer  epic  is  the  most  colossal  thing  in  the  English  lan- 
guage since  'Childe  Harold.'  While  I'm  not  sure  that 
Jack  will  ever  accomplish  anything  worth  while  in  the 
creative  field,  you  must  admit  that  he  is  a  perfectly  colossal 
critic.  You  do  admit  it?"  she  questioned  so  earnestly  that 
any  one  entering  the  room  might  have  fancied  that  she 
pled  for  the  salvation  of  her  immortal  soul. 

"'Childe  Harold'  is  not  quite  in  the  form  of — "  I  began, 
determined  not  to  be  led  into  a  controversy  so  early  hi  the 
morning,  for  I  still  cherished  the  hope  that  she  would  take 
herself  off. 

"Form!"  Hildegarde  cried,  as  though  invoking  her  pa- 
tron saint.  "Form!  the  chief  difference  between  poetry 
and  prose.  ' Paradise  Lost'  and  'Lucile,'  for  instance — 
both  tragedies,  in  a  way,  yet  each  a  different  form.  You 
don't  mind  if  I  slip  my  feet  under  the  cover  for  a  bit? — 
I've  taken  off  my  slippers." 

Without  waiting  for  my  reply  she  hoisted  up  her  feet 
and  began  to  tug  at  the  bedclothes.  Such  looking  feet! 
Her  black  stockings  were  without  toes  and  heels  and  her 
bare  flesh  glistened  with  moisture. 

"Your  feet  are  sopping  wet!"  I  involuntarily  expostu- 
lated. 

"I  never  take  cold,"  she  assured  me,  in  the  act  of  stick- 
ing her  feet  between  my  sheets. 

"Please,"  I  begged,  grabbing  the  bedclothes  from  her 
hands.  "Please,  get  that  bath-towel  over  there  and  dry 
them — give  them  a  good  rubbing.  No  use  taking  risks 
when  you  don't  need  to." 

"Risks!"  she  scoffed,  in  the  act  of  stripping  off  one  wet 
and  tattered  stocking.  "That's  what  my  burglar  and  I 
disputed  about.  We've  been  sitting  on  a  bench  in  Wash- 
ington Square  since  twelve " 

"Of  all  things !    And  the  ground  covered  with  snow." 

"He  brushed  off  a  bench  and  I  am  never  conscious  of 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE    187 

my  body  when  enthused,"  she  reproved  me.  "He  is  a 
stubborn  man,  but  he  finally  had  to  admit  the  justice  of 
my  argument — considering  the  risks  in  an  undertaking  is 
the  quickest  way  to  insure  defeat.  Only  a  weak  individu- 
ality will  consider  risks.  Once  I  make  up  my  mind  to  do 
a  thing,  I  do  it." 

She  was  rubbing  one  foot  with  my  face-towel  after  having 
tossed  her  stocking  on  my  pin-cushion. 

"While  making  up  your  mind,  don't  you  consider  the 
risks?"  I  inquired,  huddling  up  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
bed.  The  thought  of  having  her  cold  feet  come  in  contact 
with  my  flesh  made  me  feel  like  climbing  over  the  head- 
board. 

"Not  at  all.  Not  at  all,"  she  replied  emphatically,  as 
she  let  fly  her  second  wet  stocking  and  it  landed  on  the 
fresh  shirt-waist  I  had  been  so  careful  to  hang  on  the  back 
of  a  chair.  "When  the  colossal  idea  of  opening  a  tea- 
room struck  me,  instead  of  considering  risks  as  a  person 
of  weaker  mentality  undoubtedly  would,  I  went  ahead 
and  did.  Now  see  where  I  am ! — until  this  freeze  came  and 
burst  my  water-pipes  and  the  gas  froze  on  me  I  was  feed- 
ing half  the  village." 

"Half  the  village,"  I  murmured,  at  a  loss  for  words — 
only  a  few  days  before  Christmas  her  younger  sister,  a 
hard-working,  serious  girl,  had  been  forced  to  pay  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  to  keep  Hildegarde's  eating-place 
from  being  closed.  Having  lived  in  the  house  with  Hilde- 
garde  for  more  than  three  months,  I  realized  the  hopeless- 
ness of  attempting  to  make  her  see  the  truth,  so  I  changed 
the  subject.  "You  didn't  finish  telling  me  about  the  two 
poets.  Did  they  go  on  a  wedding  trip?" 

"They  are  spending  the  night  in  my  shop,"  she  told  me, 
still  busy  rubbing  her  toes. 

"What  on  earth?"  I  questioned,  so  amazed  that  I  forgot 
to  notice  that  she  was  slipping  her  feet  between  my  sheets. 


188   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"You  have  no  sleeping  arrangements — only  small  tables 
and  narrow  benches." 

"Joe  Ellen  said  it  was  better  than  taking  Harris  to 
her  room  and  to-morrow  morning  being  ordered  to  leave 
the  house  or  produce  their  marriage  license.  They  don't 
intend  the  general  public  to  know  of  their  marriage — not 
until  they  find  a  publisher  for  their  first  book  of  poems  in 
collaboration." 

"Oh !"  was  my  meek  reply,  as  I  wondered  why  she  had 
let  me  into  such  an  important  secret.  "They  might  have 
gone  to  a  hotel,"  was  my  next  remark,  and  being  a  normal 
idea  it  was  so  far  out  of  focus  that  it  impressed  me  as  an 
inspiration. 

"Hotel?"  she  questioned  indignantly.  "That  would 
have  killed  every  bit  of  romance.  Besides,  Joe  Ellen  only 
had  seven  dollars  and  a  half — a  check  she  received  for  one 
of  her  short  poems.  Then,  of  course,  as  Mr.  Freeland 
pointed  out,  there  was  Harris's  clothes." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Mr.  Freeland?  He  would  have  been  best  man  had  he 
received  Harris's  note  in  time.  It  was  he  who  discovered 
Harris — a  terrible  night  last  November.  Harris  had  come 
up  from  Texas  and  was  selling  papers  with  his  feet  wrapped 
in  an  old  piece  of  carpet  he  had  fished  out  of  a  garbage- 
can." 

Just  what  had  become  of  my  sense  of  humor  that  night 
I  have  never  been  able  to  decide.  Certainly  it  was  not 
with  me.  Instead  of  howling  with  laughter  my  brain  felt 
as  an  egg  looks  when  it  is  being  prepared  for  scrambling. 

"Did  Joe  Ellen  know  him  in  Texas?"  I  asked,  still 
feebly  keeping  to  the  details  of  the  affair. 

"Exactly  three  days  to  the  hour — that's  the  reason 
they  were  married  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night — exactly  three 
days  to  the  minute  that  they  first  met  each  other.  Ro- 
mance !  Only  a  genius  with  Joe  Ellen's  colossal  brain 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE    189 

could  have  thought  out  such  a  perfect  climax.  You  won't 
mind  if  I  take  your  other  pillow,  will  you,  dear?" 

"Oh,  no,  certainly  not,"  I  assured  her,  as  I  hastily  ex- 
tracted one  of  the  two  minute  pillows  from  behind  my 
back  and  handed  it  to  her.  As  she  settled  herself,  her 
head  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  and  her  feet  in  the  comfortably 
warm  spot  on  which  my  shoulders  had  rested  previous  to 
her  bursting  into  my  room,  I  meekly  inquired:  "Anybody 
in  your  room?" 

"My  burglar,"  she  answered  in  the  matter-of-fact  tone 
of  one  agreeing  that  two  and  two  make  four.  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  bringing  him  in  until  he  noticed  that  the  police- 
man making  his  rounds  looked  at  us.  He  got  an  idea  that 
the  officer  was  coming  back  and  tell  us  to  move  on  just  to 
get  a  good  look  at  him.  He's  awfully  psychic  about  police- 
men— says  all  men  who  have  served  three  terms  in  Sing 
Sing  are.  Of  course,  if  it  had  been  the  regular  park  police- 
man"— here  she  yawned  and  moved  her  feet  nearer  my 
corner  of  refuge — "it  would  have  been  all  right.  I've 
helped  him  take  drunken  women  to  Jefferson  Market  jail 
so  often  that  we've  got  to  be  real  pals." 

She  had  hardly  finished  this  last  sentence  when  she 
began  to  snore,  her  buttonhole  mouth  wide  open  and  her 
nose  startlingly  like  the  beak  of  a  parrot.  Convinced  that 
I  would  never  be  able  to  get  back  to  sleep  with  such  a  noise 
so  near,  I  slipped  out  of  bed  and  proceeded  to  get  my 
breakfast  with  a  tiny  alcohol-lamp. 

That  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  severest  blizzards 
ever  experienced  in  New  York  City.  It  was  impossible  to 
get  coal,  and  gas-pipes  all  over  town  had  frozen  and  burst. 
In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  my  heavy  blanket  bath-robe  I 
was  chilled  to  the  bone. 

I  was  sitting  on  my  feet  and  eating  my  breakfast — a  cup 
of  hot  tea  without  milk  or  sugar,  and  war  bread  with  mar- 
garine— when  I  heard  a  plank  hi  the  hall  outside  my  door 


190      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

groan.  The  burglar!  Creeping  noiselessly  to  the  door  I 
listened.  Some  creature  was  trying  to  pass  without  de- 
tection across  the  carpeted  floor  of  the  square  hall.  A 
second  plank  groaned. 

Opening  my  door  to  a  crack  I  peered  out.  The  candle 
in  a  saucer  which  our  landlady,  Miss  O'Brien,  had  placed 
on  a  trunk  the  night  before  as  a  substitute  for  the  gas-jet, 
had  burned  out.  At  first  I  could  see  nothing.  Then  I 
made  out  a  tall  oblong  of  duskiness — the  doorway  leading 
to  the  staircase.  The  next  instant  a  dark  object  filled  the 
dusky  space.  Another  instant  and  the  object  disappeared. 
After  a  short  wait  I  crept  out  and  looked  over  the  banisters. 

Once  or  twice,  perhaps  three  times,  I  made  out  a  sound 
so  soft  that  it  seemed  an  echo  of  the  footfall  of  a  cat  on 
the  carpeted  Stan's.  Finally  there  came  a  sharp  click  that 
sent  a  gentle  tremor  through  the  house — the  front  door  had 
opened  and  closed.  Hurrying  back  to  my  room,  regardless 
of  the  freezing  air  I  threw  up  the  little  window  and  stuck 
my  head  far  out.  Approaching  the  electric  light  at  the 
MacDougal  Street  corner  of  the  square  was  what  looked 
to  be  a  comfortably  dressed  working  man.  He  was  walk- 
ing quietly  along — evidently  on  his  way  to  or  from  work. 

My  interest  in  Hildegarde  Hook  had  been  awakened  by 
her  telling  me  of  her  first  meeting  with  this  man,  whom  she 
always  spoke  of  as  "my  burglar" — she  never  knew  his 
name. 

"You  know,  I  never  really  wake  up  until  after  twelve 
at  night,"  she  had  assured  me.  "Mother  is  like  that — 
mother  and  I  are  just  alike  except  that  mother  hasn't  my 
colossal  brain.  She  says  so  herself."  Such  was  the  intro- 
duction with  which  she  always  began  her  description  of  the 
incident. 

A  stormy  night  during  the  previous  winter  she  took 
shelter  under  the  arcade  in  front  of  Madison  Square 
Garden,  waiting  for  a  particularly  heavy  downpour  to 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE    191 

slacken.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  she  noted  that  the  only 
lighted  window  in  sight  was  that  of  the  American  Society 
for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  She  was  just 
debating  applying  for  shelter  in  the  Society  room  on  the 
plea  of  being  a  human  animal,  when  she  became  aware 
that  another  person  was  occupying  the  opposite  door-jamb. 

"Say,  sis,"  a  man's  voice  whispered,  "kin  youse  see  the 
door  to  that  cigar-store  at  corner  of  Twenty-seventh 
Street?"  When  Hildegarde  replied  that  she  could,  the 
voice  added:  "Keep  your  lamps  peeled;  when  youse  see 
that  cop  hidin'  in  the  shadder  'cross  the  corner  go  in, 
gimme  the  git-away,  liker  good  gal." 

Until  then  Hildegarde  had  not  noticed  the  dark  figure 
of  the  policeman,  so  nearly  did  his  rain-washed  rubber  coat 
and  helmet  match  the  moist  and  glistening  darkness  sur- 
rounding him.  Standing  there  in  the  doorway  of  Madison 
Square  Garden  she  learned  that  the  man  who  had  spoken 
to  her  had  served  three  terms  in  the  penitentiary  for  bur- 
glary, and  was  wanted  for  a  fourth  offense.  He  had  mistaken 
her  for  a  "woman  of  the  streets"  and  naturally  supposed 
that  she  also  was  hiding  from  the  rubber-clad  officer  of  the 
law. 

When  finally  the  policeman  did  enter  the  cigar-store 
Hildegarde  and  the  burglar  flitted  around  the  corner  at 
East  Twenty-sixth  Street,  and  hastened  to  the  safer  shadows 
of  Lexington  Avenue.  Seated  on  a  bench  hi  Stuyvesant 
Square  in  the  pouring  rain,  Hildegarde  insisted  that  the 
burglar  had  "made  a  full  confession,"  and  promised  to  lead 
an  honest  life.  To  further  this  end  she  required  him  to 
meet  her  once  each  month,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night, 
usually  in  Washington  Square. 

As  proof-reader  in  the  multigraph  department  of  the  In- 
ternational Y.  M.  C.  A.  my  wage  was  twelve  dollars  a  week, 
and  I  found  it  the  most  uninteresting  of  all  the  positions 
held  during  my  four  years  in  the  underbrush.  This  was 


192   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

doubtless  because  it  was  something  I  had  done  before. 
Not  only  had  I  read  proof,  but  I  had  worked  in  a  crowded 
dark  basement  under  electric  lights,  and  for  long  hours. 
Reading  the  annual  reports  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretaries 
from  about  every  country  of  the  world  was  something  of 
a  novelty,  though  many  of  them  were  far  from  interesting. 

What  I  did  enjoy  was  the  atmosphere,  the  spirit  of  the 
place — everybody  spoke  to  everybody,  and  always  with 
smiling  courtesy.  It  was  charming.  Also  it  was  com- 
fortable to  know  that  however  ignorant  you  might  be  you 
would  not  be  snubbed  nor  sneered  at.  The  war  had  in- 
creased the  work  so  much  that  the  building  on  East 
Twenty-eighth  Street  swarmed  with  workers.  Practically 
every  day  a  new  department  was  organized,  only  to  be 
moved  out  the  next  day  for  the  sake  of  getting  larger  quar- 
ters, and  to  make  room  for  yet  another  new  branch  of  work. 

For  a  good  many  years  I  had  heard  the  two  "  Ys"  sneered 
at  for  being  "sectarian."  While  at  the  Jane  Leonard,  Miss 
Stafford  had  retorted  to  my  praise  of  the  Y.  W. :  "  Being  a 
Catholic  you  know  what  I  think  of  the  Young  Woman's 
Christian  Association."  She  then  assured  me  that  both 
the  Y.  W.  and  the  Y.  M.  were  so  "dead  against  Catholics" 
that  they  even  refused  to  list  them  in  their  employment 
departments. 

In  the  multigraph  department  at  the  International  Head- 
quarters of  the  Y.  M.  I  worked  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  a 
young  Catholic  woman.  Though  she  was  not  particularly 
efficient,  she  had  held  the  position  for  several  years;  indeed, 
ever  since  she  left  school.  Her  younger  sister  was  the 
private  secretary  of  the  head  of  one  of  the  departments. 
Both  these  Catholic  women  had  gotten  their  positions 
through  the  employment  department  of  the  Y.  W. 

In  the  lunch-room  of  the  International  Headquarters  I 
met  several  other  Catholic  women,  all  earning  their  daily 
bread  working  for  the  Y.  M.  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  of 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE    193 

their  being  discriminated  against.  One  of  them  boasted 
to  me: 

"Being  a  Catholic  I'm  not  expected  to  go  to  prayers. 
That  gives  me  an  extra  half-hour  to  do  with  as  I  please. 
I  usually  run  out  and  do  a  little  shopping  or  looking  around, 
the  stores  are  so  convenient." 

Now,  I  hold  no  brief  for  any  Church — I  believe  in  Justice. 
In  all  my  dealings  with  the  two  "Ys"  I  never  saw  the 
slightest  indication  that  any  creed  was  discriminated 
against. 

Is  it  because  the  two  "Ys"  stand  for  progress  that 
Catholics  abuse  them,  belittle  their  work? 

It  may  have  been  because  of  my  long  hours  in  the  base- 
ment of  the  International  Headquarters,  or  it  may  have 
been  subsisting  on  such  scanty  meals — in  any  event  soon 
after  giving  up  my  position  in  the  multigraph  department 
I  was  taken  with  a  heavy  cold.  I  know  I  had  fever,  for 
twice  a  day  my  pillows  and  sheets  were  saturated  with 
perspiration.  My  head  felt  as  big  as  a  bushel  measure, 
and  was  chockful  of  ache. 

Struggle  as  hard  as  I  might,  and  I  did  struggle,  I  couldn't 
get  up  sufficient  strength  to  get  down-stairs,  even  though 
after  hours  of  struggle  I  succeeded  in  putting  on  my  clothes. 
The  first  Sunday  of  this  illness  I  think  I  must  have  been 
in  a  measure  delirious,  for  I  was  obsessed  by  the  idea  that 
no  hospital  would  take  me  in,  that  I  must  wait  until 
Monday. 

With  that  idea  planted  firmly  in  my  mind,  I  pinned  a 
note  on  the  pin-cushion — the  name  of  the  physician  I 
wished  called  on  Monday,  and  to  which  hospital  I  was  to 
be  taken.  A  ten-cent  bottle  of  vaseline  being  all  I  pos- 
sessed hi  the  way  of  medicine,  I  put  it  beside  my  pillow 
and  between  dozes  ate  it. 

Sunday  night  I  began  to  cough  up  the  phlegm  that  had 
made  my  chest  feel  so  painfully  tight.  Then  I  fell  asleep, 


194      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

such  a  good,  sound  sleep.  When  I  wakened  it  was  Monday 
forenoon,  my  head  had  become  normal  in  size,  and  all  the 
ache  had  disappeared.  How  weak  I  was !  Trying  to  walk 
from  the  bed  to  the  window  I  almost  fainted. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Jack  Harland,  who  also  had  a 
room  on  the  top  floor,  I  really  don't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  me.  Miss  O'Brien  never  came  near  me,  neither 
did  Hildegarde  Hook.  Jack,  my  tall,  long-legged  boy,  as 
I  used  to  call  him,  came  twice  a  day,  morning  and  evening, 
to  ask  how  I  felt  and  learn  what  he  could  get  for  me  in  the 
way  of  food. 

Later,  when  I  was  able  partially  to  dress  and  keep  my 
eyes  open,  he  would  come  in  evenings  and  read  to  me — • 
the  daily  paper  and  parts  of  "Les  Mise"rables"  and  of 
"Ninety-Three."  Wonderful  Victor  Hugo!  When  read 
by  a  sympathetic  boy's  voice  these  books  become  wonder- 
ful indeed. 

The  first  time  I  was  able  to  creep  out,  on  returning, 
mounting  the  four  flights  of  stairs  to  my  room,  I  realized 
that  something  was  the  matter  with  my  heart.  Instead  of 
hunting  a  job  next  day,  as  I  had  planned,  I  knew  that  I 
must  wait  until  I  got  stronger.  Working  with  a  fluttery 
heart  like  that  I  might  drop  in  my  tracks  at  any  mo- 
ment. 

I  had  paid  a  week's  rent  and  still  had  five  dollars  in  my 
pocketbook,  so  why  worry?  Of  course  I  would  be  fit  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  week.  When  that  time  came  not  only 
was  my  heart  as  fluttery  as  ever,  but  I  realized  that  I  had 
gamed  precious  little,  if  any,  strength. 

A  problem  faced  me — must  I  give  up  my  plan  of  living 
on  my  wages,  go  to  the  bank  and  get  money  to  tide  me 
over,  or  what?  What  would  Polly  Preston,  who  had  no 
money  in  bank,  do  under  the  circumstances  ?  How  was 
I  to  feel  as  a  working  woman  felt  if  I  kept  in  the  back  of 
my  mind  the  knowledge  that  I  could  go  to  the  bank  and 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE     195 

get  money  to  tide  me  over  a  rough  place?  Again  what 
would  Polly  Preston  do? 

On  leaving  a  bench  in  Washington  Square  I  returned  to 
the  rooming-house,  and  crawling  up  the  stairs,  I  reached 
my  room  and  took  stock  of  my  scanty  wardrobe.  It  must 
be  either  my  furs  or  my  cloak.  Fortunately,  the  weather 
was  mild.  I  had  exactly  one  dollar  in  my  pocketbook,  and 
to-morrow  was  rent  day. 

The  following  day  I  set  out  soon  after  breakfast,  wear- 
ing both  my  cloak  and  furs  over  my  coat  suit.  Recalling 
that  I  had  seen  one  or  more  pawn-shops  on  Sixth  Avenue 
in  the  vicinity  of  West  Fourteenth  Street,  I  went  there. 
In  the  first  I  was  told  brusquely  that  they  did  not  accept 
wearing  apparel  of  any  sort. 

On  leaving  the  second  pawn-shop  I  held  twenty  dollars 
in  my  hand  and  was  without  my  furs.  Twenty  dollars 
was  ample  provision  for  three  weeks.  Long  before  that 
time  I  would  be  able  to  get  a  good  job  now  that  work 
was  so  plentiful  and  so  well  paid. 

Spending  the  rest  of  the  day  on  a  bench  hi  Washington 
Square  with  a  library  book  in  my  hand  convinced  me  that 
I  must  find  some  other  way  of  occupying  my  time  if  I 
was  to  gain  strength.  The  afternoon  paper  solved  that 
problem. 

The  U.  S.  Employment  Bureau  on  East  Twenty-second 
Street  was  in  need  of  volunteer  workers.  On  calling  the 
next  morning  shortly  after  nine  I  found  the  street  hi  front 
of  the  Bureau  crowded  by  men.  When  finally,  having 
wormed  my  way  hi  and  up  the  stairs,  I  made  myself  known 
and  offered  my  services  I  was  quickly  placed — given  a 
chair  at  a  long  make-shift  table,  planks  on  top  of  saw- 
horses,  and  told  to  register  applicants  willing  to  take  work 
in  shipyards. 

That  was  a  motley  crowd — men  holding  jobs  paying  as 
high  as  five  hundred  dollars  a  month  offered  themselves 


196      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

for  positions  paying  one-fifth  that  amount,  and  men  who 
had  no  work  at  all  refused  jobs,  the  only  ones  they  were 
fitted  for,  at  three  dollars  a  day. 

One  dear  old  Frenchman  I  shall  never  forget.  He  had 
passed  down  the  long  line  of  registrars  struggling  to  make 
himself  understood  when  he  reached  me.  Though  he  had 
lived  in  New  York  more  than  twenty  years  he  could  neither 
speak  nor  understand  the  American  language. 

He  was  a  highly  paid  cabinetmaker.  Up  to  the  out- 
break of  the  World  War  his  family  comprised  himself,  his 
wife,  five  sons,  and  little  Hortense.  When  he  reached  me, 
a  bright  day  when  winter's  smile  seems  spring,  his  little 
circle  had  dwindled  within  two  years  to  himself  and  little 
Hortense.  His  five  sons  were  under  the  poppies  some- 
where in  France,  his  wife  had  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

He  acknowledged  his  age,  past  sixty,  but  insisted  he  still 
had  strength  enough  to  work  for  America  and  France.  He 
would  take  any  job,  at  any  wage.  I  gave  him  a  card  and 
sent  him  to  an  employer  who  had  specially  stipulated  that 
he  would  take  no  man  over  forty. 

Within  an  hour  that  employer  telephoned  and  asked  for 
me.  Instead  of  the  blowing-up  that  the  registrar  at  my 
elbow  prophesied,  he  wished  to  thank  me.  The  French- 
man was  a  tip-top  workman,  he  said.  Then  he  added: 

"It's  not  often  you  find  a  person,  man  or  woman,  who 
knows  when  to  break  a  rule.  That's  what  I  called  you  up 
for — to  thank  you  for  breaking  my  rule.  If  you  find  any 
more  men  like  your  Frenchman,  don't  ask  his  age,  just 
send  him  along." 

Learning  that  women  were  needed  in  the  gas-mask  fac- 
tory at  Long  Island  City,  I  got  a  card  of  introduction  from 
the  head  of  the  woman's  branch  of  the  employment  bureau, 
and  journeyed  out.  This  woman  had  told  me  that  the 
wage  was  exceptional — twenty-five  to  forty  a  week. 

As  fifteen  dollars  a  week  had,  up  to  that  time,  been  the 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE    197 

highest  I  had  received,  and  that  for  only  a  few  weeks,  I 
looked  forward  to  making  my  fortune  in  the  gas-mask 
factory  in  a  few  days.  Another  case  of  exaggerated  wage. 
Fifteen  dollars  is  what  I  was  paid,  and  I  would  have  had 
to  work  there  a  good  long  time  before  getting  a  raise. 

As  it  happened  I  worked  there  two  days,  received  my 
training  and  was  made  an  inspector  at  fifteen  dollars  a 
week,  then  decided  to  find  another  job.  The  fumes  of 
gasolene  gave  me  a  hideous  headache,  and  besides  I  had 
seen  large  crowds  of  women  turned  away  from  the  doors 
every  day. 

Returning  to  the  employment  offices  of  the  Y.  W.,  I 
stipulated  that  my  next  job  must  be  work  for  the  govern- 
ment, preferably  in  a  munition  plant.  There  were  plenty 
of  openings,  and  taking  cards  of  introduction  to  several 
plants  near  New  York  City,  I  set  out. 

"Even  if  you  don't  find  anything  to  suit  you,"  the 
woman  at  the  employment  desk  told  me,  "it  will  be  help- 
ing us,  letting  us  know  what  you  think  of  the  places." 

"Send  only  mature  women  to  that  plant  in  Hoboken. 
They  want  night-workers,"  I  advised  her  on  my  return. 
"Those  other  two  places  over  in  Jersey?  If  you  have  girls 
who  have  twenty  dollars  to  spend  before  their  wages  begin 
to  come  in,  send  them  there." 

"But  the  clubwomen?"  she  questioned.  "We  were 
told  that  the  clubwomen  had  thrown  open  their  homes, 
would  board  women  workers  in  those  plants." 

I  showed  her  my  figures,  the  lowest  that  I  had  been 
able  to  get,  though  directed  by  the  employment  office  of 
the  munition  plant:  three  dollars  a  week  for  a  small 
room,  up  two  flights,  seven  dollars  a  week  for  two  meals  a 
day  and  three  on  Sundays,  sixty  cents  car-fare, — that  is 
if  you  caught  a  particular  train  making  the  trip  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  munition  workers. 

"The  wage  being  eleven  dollars  a  week,  girls  working 


198   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

there  who  room  with  and  are  fed  by  those  clubwomen, 
will  have  just  forty  cents  with  which  to  get  lunch,  laundry, 
and  any  other  little  luxury,"  I  went  on.  "And  don't  forget 
she  doesn't  get  a  dollar  until  the  end  of  her  second  week. 
Her  first  week's  pay  is  held  until  she  leaves — God  knows 
for  why — and  she  is  not  paid  for  her  second  week  until  she 
finishes  it.  In  the  meantime  she  has  to  pay  for  everything 
in  advance,  board,  lodging,  and  car-fare." 

" Those  clubwomen!"  she  exclaimed,  in  disgust.  "The 
fuss  they  made  about  taking  munition  workers  in  their 
homes  for  the  sake  of  helping  the  government." 

"That's  what  being  a  worker  means — everybody's  prey," 
I  replied,  and  the  thought  did  not  make  me  any  the  hap- 
pier. "It's  gouge  and  squeeze,  and  when  only  a  flicker  of 
life  remains  fling  them  in  an  almshouse  or  a  pauper's  grave. 
Ours  is  a  Christian  country." 

During  the  two  months  that  followed  I  worked  a  few 
days  in  a  cigarette  factory,  in  a  second  cracker  factory, 
folded  circulars,  addressed  envelopes,  stamped  envelopes, 
and  folded  more  circulars.  It  was  on  this  last  job  that  I 
was  taken  for  a  labor  organizer. 

Having  nothing  else  to  say  to  the  woman  working  at  my 
elbow,  I  asked  if  that  printing-house  was  open  or  closed 
shop.  Within  three  minutes  she  pattered  off,  and  held  a 
lengthy  conversation  with  the  forewoman.  Within  another 
three  minutes  this  forewoman  had  informed  me  that  as 
the  work  was  "running  short,"  she  would  have  no  need 
of  my  services  "right  then." 

Those  two  words,  "right  then,"  so  I  was  informed,  pre- 
vented that  forewoman's  dismissal  from  being  a  discharge. 
Had  she  discharged  me  I  could  have  collected  the  wage 
due  me;  as  I  was  "laid  off,"  I  had  to  wait  until  the  next 
pay-day. 

"There's  more  ways  of  killing  a  dog  besides  choking  it 
to  death  with  butter,"  the  woman  who  explained  the  matter 


STAMPING-GROUND  OF  MONKEY-PEOPLE    199 

to  me  added.  "Some  of  these  days — if  the  workers'  day 
comes  in  my  time — I'll  do  some  of  the  choking." 

On  returning  to  my  friend  of  the  Y.  W.  employment  de- 
partment, she  gave  me  a  handful  of  cards. 

"  They  're  all  good  positions,  but  I  know  which  you'll 
take,"  she  told  me.  "It's  the  one  with  the  smallest  salary." 

"Why?  I'm  working  for  my  living,  living  on  my  earn- 
ings," I  retorted,  not  a  bit  pleased  by  her  declaration. 

"Yes,  but  you've  got  an  enormous  amount  of  curiosity," 
she  laughed  at  me.  "That  position  is  with  the  American 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  It's  in 
the  office,  posting  the  books,  and  the  salary  is  only  fifteen 
a  week.  You'll  take  it  because  you  want  to  see  how 
it  works." 

I  handed  all  the  other  cards  back  to  her  and  set  out  for 
the  offices  of  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  There  I  was  taken  on  and 
put  to  work  at  once — writing  hi  a  huge  book  the  numbers 
for  the  current  year  of  licensed  dogs.  It  was  not  tenement 
work,  but  it  touched  the  tenements  and  that  pleased  me. 

During  my  second  week,  on  learning  that  the  society 
needed  license  inspectors  to  take  the  place  of  the  men  who 
had  gone  to  the  front,  I  determined  to  apply.  When  told 
by  a  man  in  the  office  that  the  positions  were  for  men  only, 
I  did  not  change  my  mind.  Up  I  marched  to  Mr.  Horton's 
office. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Horton,  the  manager,  "we  never  have 
had  a  woman  inspector.  Still,  I  don't  know  any  reason 
why  a  woman  shouldn't  hold  the  position.  Do  you  know 
what  the  salary  is?" 

"No,  sir." 

Mr.  Horton  smiled. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  duties  are?" 

"No,  sir." 

Mr.  Horton  smiled  again. 

"Most  of  your  work  will  be  in  the  tenements,  from  house 


200   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

to  house.  Often  from  flat  to  flat.  You'll  have  to  go  wher- 
ever there  is  a  dog — to  see  if  it  is  licensed,  healthy,  and  well 
cared  for." 

It  so  happened  that  I  did  know  all  this.  That  was  my 
reason  for  wanting  the  job — it  would  take  me  into  the  tene- 
ments, to  meet  tenement-dwellers  face  to  face  as  fellow 
human  beings.  I  would  see  the  homes  from  which  the  men 
and  girls,  my  fellow  workers  for  so  many  months,  come. 

At  last  I  was  going  into  the  tenements,  stepping  into  a 
more  dense  section  of  the  underbrush,  where  I  would  get 
at  least  glimpses  of  the  heart  of  the  jungle. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  HEART  OF  THE  JUNGLE 

THE  tenements  of  New  York  City !  The  change  that  I 
made — working  with  tenement-dwellers  and  living  in  room- 
ing-houses to  working  in  and  living  in  the  tenements — was 
like  that  experienced  by  a  hunter  when  stepping  from  the 
outskirts  to  the  depths  of  a  jungle — a  jungle  abounding 
hi  treacherous  quicksands  and  infested  by  the  most  venom- 
ous and  noisome  creatures  of  the  animal  kingdom — a  swamp 
in  which  any  misstep  may  plunge  you  into  the  choking 
depths  of  a  quagmire  or  the  coils  of  a  slimy  reptile. 

But  there  are  two  great  differences  between  the  jungles 
of  civilization  and  those  created  by  nature.  In  nature's 
works  there  is  always  beauty — however  noxious  the  crea- 
ture, however  venomous  the  reptile,  there  is  always  beauty. 
The  tenements  of  New  York  City  are  monstrously  hideous. 

In  nature's  jungles  the  evolution  is  always  upward  from 
protoplasm  to  that  most  perfect  of  animals — man  made  in 
the  image  of  his  Maker.  In  the  jungles  of  civilization  the 
evolution  is  always  downward — from  man  to  beast,  to  rep- 
tile, and  to  that  most  noisome  of  living  creatures,  the  human 
worm. 

In  the  tenements  of  New  York  City  we  see  the  forced  de- 
civilization  of  representatives  of  all  the  civilized  peoples. 
In  it  there  exist  thousands  more  afflicted  than  Lazarus, 
thousands  possessed  of  more  devils  than  the  Master  cast 
out  of  the  man  of  Gadarenes,  thousands  in  whom  the  light 
of  human  intelligence  will  never  even  flicker.  It  is  the  great- 
est of  all  earthly  hells.  It  is  the  product  of  human  greed. 

Comparing  New  York  City  to  a  jungle — the  gilded  zone 
of  Fifth  and  Park  Avenues  are  the  tall  timbers,  the  grove 

201 


202   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

of  leisure  and  pleasure  wherein  the  human  animal  having 
all  that  nature  and  civilization  can  supply  is  supposed  to 
grow  to  perfection — the  superman.  Leaving  this  zone, 
going  east  or  west,  with  every  step  leisure  and  pleasure 
grow  rapidly  less,  farther  and  farther  behind  do  we  leave 
fresh  air  and  sunshine,  and  all  that  makes  life  desirable. 

I  entered  the  tenements  by  two  routes — as  a  social  worker 
attached  to  Bellevue  Hospital,  and  as  a  license  inspector 
for  the  American  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Animals.  Polly  Preston  entered  by  yet  another  route — as 
a  fugitive. 

Even  to-day  as  I  write,  with  more  than  a  thousand  miles 
between  me  and  New  York  City,  I  recall  my  work  in  the 
tenements  as  a  social  worker  with  a  shiver.  Social  work  is 
dispensing  as  charity  that  which  should  have  been  paid 
as  wages.  Had  the  wage  been  paid  there  would  have  been 
no  rickety  baby,  no  tubercular  manhood  and  womanhood, 
no  need  for  homes  for  incurables.  It  is  underpaying  that 
drives  persons  to  live  in  the  tenements,  it  is  ill  health  or 
ignorance  that  keeps  them  there. 

Possessing  neither  the  blasphemous  conceit  formerly 
professed  by  Wilhelm  Hohenzollern  nor  the  sublime  faith 
of  the  Pope,  I  did  not  enjoy  acting  as  the  personal  repre- 
sentative of  God  Almighty.  It  used  to  make  me  sick  as 
with  nausea,  more  than  once  I  was  near  to  wringing  my 
hands. 

Who  was  I  that  honest,  hard-working  men  and  women 
should  cringe  before  me? — poor  overworked,  underfed  hu- 
man beings  who  from  their  birth  to  their  death  never  lost 
consciousness  of  the  snarling  presence  of  that  hell-hound 
Poverty. 

It  was  in  my  power  to  see  that  a  quart  of  milk  was  de- 
livered daily  for  Baby — real  bottled  grade  A  milk  with  all 
the  cream  hi  it.  Johnnie  was  kept  home  for  lack  of  shoes, 
and  his  father  having  been  in  the  hospital  going  on  five 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  JUNGLE     203 

weeks,  and  his  mother's  wages  as  scrubwoman  only  enough 
to  buy  food,  there  was  no  hope  of  his  getting  a  pair  unless — 
yes,  I  had  the  power  to  get  for  him  a  better  pair  than  pos- 
sessed by  any  boy  on  the  Avenue.  Wonderful  lady!  So 
all-powerful. 

"  Johnnie,  bring  a  chair  for  the  lady.  Let  'er  see  what 
nice  manners  you've  got."  And  Johnnie,  tripping  over  his 
own  feet  incased  in  a  pair  of  men's  shoes  past  mending 
and  too  broken  for  his  father  to  wear,  drags  forward  the 
only  whole  chair  in  the  flat. 

Another  typical  case  was  that  of  Mary  Kane.  The  tene- 
ment in  which  I  found  her  was  like  ninety-nine  out  of  every 
hundred  in  New  York  City.  Dark  halls  with  crooked  stairs 
and  air  foul  for  lack  of  ventilation  and  overcrowding. 

"Stop  cryin',  Mamie.  Here's  a  lady  from  Bellevue. 
Maybe  she  can  get  you  to  go  to  the  country."  And  her 
mother,  haggard  and  overworked  to  the  point  of  despera- 
tion, turns  to  me  with  a  wan  smile  which,  in  her  effort  to 
make  it  gracious,  becomes  a  ghastly  grin. 

When  I  reply  that  it  is  because  the  society  sending  con- 
valescing children  to  the  country  had  reported  that  Mary 
had  not  used  the  card  entitling  her  to  two  weeks  in  their 
home  that  I  have  called,  her  grin  becomes  that  of  a 
beaten  dog.  Again  it  is  lack  of  shoes  and  a  few  clothes. 
In  this  case  the  husband  and  father  is  not  in  Bellevue.  He 
had  stopped  hi  the  corner  saloon  on  his  way  home  with 
his  wages. 

Mary  has  a  tendency  to  T.  B.  To  spin  her  life  out  even 
a  few  months  will  require  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  the  right 
kind  of  food. 

Hospital  social  service  is  to  supplement  the  work  of  the 
doctors  and  nurses  of  that  particular  hospital.  Fortunately, 
Mary  has  been  in  Bellevue.  I  took  her  size  and  the  number 
of  her  shoes,  and  promised  to  get  them  along  with  another 
card  entitling  her  to  another  two  weeks  in  the  country. 


204      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Time  passes  and  again  we  are  notified  that  Mary  has 
not  used  her  card.  On  my  return  to  the  tenement  prac- 
tically the  same  scene  confronted  me.  Only  this  time  the 
mother  had  a  black  eye,  the  baby  tugging  at  her  breast  was 
whimpering,  and  Mary  seated  near  a  window,  the  only 
window  hi  the  flat  from  which  a  glimpse  of  the  sky  may 
be  had,  looked  more  like  a  ghost  than  a  living  child. 

Before  I  was  well  in  the  door  the  mother  hustled  me  back 
again  into  the  hall.  In  a  neighbor's  flat,  a  trifle  lighter  than 
her  own  because  there  were  two  windows  in  the  front  room 
opening  on  the  street,  she  started  to  tell  me  her  story.  Be- 
cause I  had  known  many  tenement  wives  and  mothers  I 
recognized  that  she  was  lying  and  stopped  her. 

"Who  was  that  snoring  in  your  back  room?"  I  asked  her. 
And  fact  by  fact  I  draw  the  story  from  her. 

The  husband  and  father  of  the  family  had  stolen  the 
shoes  and  clothes  sent  for  Mary,  had  sold  them  and  gotten 
drunk  on  the  proceeds.  So  drunk  that—  Oh,  she  didn't 
mind  a  black  eye  so  much,  she  assured  me.  He  didn't 
really  mean  it,  being  a  good  man  when  not  in  liquor. 
What  she  regretted  was  that  he  had  missed  two  days  at 
work. 

Then  with  a  grin  like  a  cringing  beaten  dog  she  admitted 
that  since  Saturday  noon  she  and  Mary  had  lived  on  tea, 
without  either  milk  or  sugar,  and  part  of  a  loaf  of  bread 
given  her  by  a  neighbor.  To-morrow?  Maybe  by  to- 
morrow her  husband  would  be  sober  enough  to  return  to 
his  job. 

Then  came  that  terrible  look — the  look  that  made  me 
want  to  wring  my  hands,  to  get  off  the  earth,  had  such  been 
possible.  The  look  of  a  cringing  human  soul  pleading  to 
the  All-Powerful  for  something  dearer  than  life — to  give 
Mary  another  chance. 

A  succession  of  such  scenes  is  what  entering  the  tene- 
ments as  a  social  worker  means.  One  sees  only  the  ab- 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  JUNGLE     205 

normal,  hears  only  the  groans  of  the  suffering,  and  of  the 
misdeeds  of  the  criminals. 

Entering  the  tenements  as  an  inspector  of  dog  licenses 
for  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  brought  me  face  to  face  with  normal 
conditions — the  well  and  the  sick,  the  innocent  and  the 
criminal,  the  devils  and  the  angels.  I  met  them  all,  and 
so  far  as  my  time  permitted  I  tried  to  get  the  point  of  view 
of  each  individual. 

Hardest  of  all,  I  tried  to  get  the  point  of  view  of  the 
owners  of  tenement-houses — the  originator  or  the  per- 
petuator  of  the  greatest  of  earthly  hells.  After  working 
among  and  living  In  the  property  of  the  tenement-house 
owners  for  twenty-one  months  I  believe  that  I  succeeded. 

GET  MONEY— IT  MAKES  NO  DIFFERENCE  BY 
WHAT  MEANS,  GET  MONEY— is  the  point  of  view  of 
the  owners  of  tenement-house  property  in  New  York  City. 

They  have  no  civic  pride,  no  pride  of  race,  no  feeling  of 
brotherhood.  Greed,  that's  all,  GREED.  Never  do  they 
consider  the  health  or  good  name  of  the  city,  or  the  health 
or  comfort  of  their  tenants.  It  is  get  money,  and  more 
money. 

Like  the  idle  married  woman,  they  are  a  curse,  a  mildew, 
sapping  the  very  life-blood  of  those  whose  welfare  and 
comfort  should  be  their  first  ami. 

Poverty  of  itself  is  not  degrading.  It  is  the  filthy  dens 
in  which  the  poor  of  New  York  are  forced  to  live  that  de- 
civilizes  them,  converting  human  beings  into  beasts  and 
reptiles.  I  do  not  believe  that  Abraham  Lincoln  himself 
could  have  risen  above  a  childhood  passed  in  the  average 
New  York  tenement. 

It  is  not  the  location,  for  the  tenements  among  which  I 
worked  occupy  the  healthiest  and  most  convenient  por- 
tions of  Manhattan  Island.  It  is  the  landlord — the  eternal 
drive  of  the  house-owner  for  money,  and  more  money.  I 
have  talked  with  hundreds  of  them,  and  found  but  one 


206      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

exception.  That  one  was  a  stable-keeper,  whose  tenement- 
houses  are  situated  in  the  lower  gas-house  district,  and 
about  whom  I  shall  write  farther  on. 

My  remedy  for  tenement-house  conditions  is  to  make 
the  owners  live  in  them  for  twelve  successive  months. 
Force  every  tenement-owner  to  live  with  his  or  her  family 
in  the  house  that  belongs  to  him  or  her,  to  pass  one  winter 
and  one  summer.  What  a  cleaning  up  and  tearing  down 
there  would  be. 

When  that  happens  the  police  force  of  New  York  can  be 
cut  down  to  half,  and  the  Health  Department  can  go  out  of 
business.  Neither  the  police  nor  the  workers  of  the  Health 
Department  will  have  to  do  without  city  jobs.  There  will 
be  room  in  the  Department  of  Street-Cleaning.  Then  the 
cleaning  will  begin  in  those  sections  containing  the  greatest 
number  of  inhabitants,  not  in  those  having  the  most  ex- 
pensive property. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
BURROWING  IN 

MY  going  to  live  in  the  tenements  came  about  in  a  round- 
about way.  While  existing  in  the  Jane  Leonard  I  let  it 
be  known  that  I  was  looking  for  a  small  flat  in  a  tenement. 
The  only  one  offered  me  was  that  of  a  young  artist  who 
had  been  called  to  Washington  City  by  the  government. 
It  was  in  a  " model  tenement,"  had  two  rooms,  a  kitchen, 
electric  lights,  gas  for  cooking,  steam-heat,  hot  and  cold 
water,  and  the  windows  of  the  comfortably  large  living- 
room  overlooked  East  River  and  Blackwell's  Island. 

"What  more  can  you  expect  for  the  money?"  Miss  Staf- 
ford, who  had  learned  of  the  place  and  insisted  on  taking 
me  to  see  it,  exclaimed  pettishly  when  told  that  it  was  not 
what  I  wanted.  "Five  dollars  and  twenty  cents  a  week! 
It  really  is  remarkable.  The  furniture  is  fit  for  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, real  antique.  They  say  Mr.  Howard  spent  thousands 
furnishing  it.  On  account  of  the  river  view,  you  know." 

She  lifted  a  window  and  with  a  flourish  of  her  chubby 
hand  indicated  the  sluggishly  flowing  river.  And  with 
another  flourish  the  almshouse  on  Blackwell's  Island. 

"The  house  is  so  well  kept,"  she  assured  me,  as  she 
turned  from  the  window.  "Such  nice  people  live  here. 
The  agent  is  a  lady  of  the  old  school.  She  told  me  herself 
that  she  never  accepted  a  tenant  without  a  thorough  per- 
sonal examination.  I  really  can't  see  what  more  you  want, 
since  you  have  set  your  heart  on  living  in  a  tenement." 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  I  did  not  want  so 
much.  To  any  one  with  even  a  superficial  knowledge  of 
tenement  conditions  the  rent  of  the  flat  told  the  story.  I 

207 


208      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

had  already  learned  enough  about  the  private  affairs  of 
my  fellow  workers  to  know  that  none  of  them  lived  in  such 
expensive  quarters.  For  the  sake  of  getting  sufficient 
room  for  their  family  they  were  forced  to  do  without  con- 
veniences. At  the  premium  station  the  girls  had  looked 
at  me  with  awe  when  told  that  I  paid  two  dollars  and  a 
half  a  week  for  one  room.  They  lived  in  flats  of  from 
five  to  seven  rooms,  the  rental  of  which  was  from  ten  to 
fifteen  dollars  a  month.  One  of  them,  describing  her  home, 
said: 

"We've  got  seven  rooms,  real  large  rooms,  and  only  one 
is  dark.  It's  a  cold-water  flat.  What  you  want  a  hot- 
water  flat  for  ? — pay  for  hot  water  and  never  get  it.  Mother 
says  it's  better  to  have  seven  rooms  and  pay  for  gas  when 
you  needs  hot  water  than  to  be  packed  hi  five  rooms  pay- 
ing for  hot  water  that  you  can  never  get." 

At  that  time  the  tenement-dweller  who  paid  above 
twenty  dollars  a  month  rent  either  received  an  exception- 
ally high  wage  or  had  several  children  working.  My  ex- 
perience had  taught  me  that  my  neighbors  in  the  model 
tenement  would  be  of  the  lesser  professional  class  and  well 
paid  office  workers.  I  not  only  did  not  wish  to  live  among 
such  people,  but  I  was  dead  set  against  having  a  lady-of-the- 
old-school  agent.  I  wished  to  learn  the  truth  about  tene- 
ment conditions.  However,  I  realized  the  uselessness  of 
trying  to  explain  to  Miss  Stafford.  Though  I  talked  all 
day  she  would  not  understand. 

It  was  because  I  felt  sure  that  Hildegarde  Hook  would 
understand  that  I  went  to  live  in  the  Greenwich  Village 
rooming-house  in  which  she  spent  her  winters.  But  my 
faith  in  her  understanding  began  a  rapid  evaporation  the 
evening  after  I  moved  in. 

Hildegarde  was  busy  cleaning,  with  a  grubbing-hoe,  the 
basement  hi  which  she  afterward  conducted  her  tea-room. 
She  invited  me  to  dine  with  her.  On  learning  that  this, 


BURROWING  IN  209 

my  first  meal,  was  to  be  cooked  in  her  basement,  I  accepted 
with  the  proviso  that  I  pay  for  all  materials. 

After  my  winter  with  Alice  and  observing  the  economies 
of  the  hat-trimmer,  Hildegarde's  manner  of  buying  seemed 
nothing  short  of  reckless  extravagance.  At  one  of  the 
most  expensive  stalls  in  Jefferson  Market  she  bought  let- 
tuce, tomatoes,  and  hothouse  cucumbers  at  a  price  that 
would  have  fed  Alice  and  me  for  days.  At  yet  another 
high-priced  place  she  selected  and  I  paid  for  a  large  loaf 
of  bread,  which  she  declared  to  be  the  only  kind  she  ever 
ate.  Next  came  salad  dressing,  unsalted  butter,  sugar, 
fresh  cream  cheese. 

Sure  that  this  would  be  all,  I  carefully  folded  and  stored 
in  the  bottom  of  my  bag  the  remains  of  my  five-dollar  bill. 
I  did  not  know  Hildegarde.  Declaring  that  the  grade  of 
foodstuffs  carried  in  the  Jefferson  Market  was  a  disgrace 
to  the  city,  she  led  me  to  a  meat-shop  on  a  cross  street. 

Tenderloin  steak !  My  hair  almost  stood  on  end.  Three 
pounds !  What  on  earth  was  she  going  to  do  with  it  ? 
Then  I  had  a  happy  thought.  Such  a  cheerful  solution. 
The  next  day  being  Sunday  she  planned  for  me  to  take  all 
three  meals  with  her.  Though  I  cannot  be  sure  that  while 
paying  for  that  steak  I  wore  a  smiling  countenance,  I  am 
sure  that  I  was  not  so  glum  as  I  most  certainly  would  have 
been  had  I  known  what  was  to  become  of  it. 

Hildegarde  ate  it — two  pounds  and  three-quarters  of 
underdone  steak,  at  one  sitting.  When  I  said  that  I  only 
wished  a  small  piece,  she  gave  me  the  bone.  And  she  ate 
that  red  dripping  meat  without  bread,  potatoes,  or  vegetable 
of  any  sort — two  pounds  and  three-quarters  of  underdone 
steak. 

It  was  not  an  appetizing  sight.  When  she  had  swallowed 
the  last  mouthful  she  explained  that,  being  a  meat-eater, 
she  only  ate  other  things  for  the  sake  of  filling  up.  When 
she  finished  that  process  the  provisions  which  I  had  believed 


210      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

would  last  us  both  through  Sunday  had  all  disappeared— 
the  last  of  the  quarter  of  a  pound  of  sweet  butter  together 
with  the  last  of  the  pound  of  granulated  sugar  on  the  last 
slice  of  bread. 

Our  sightseeing  began  on  a  narrow  street  both  crooked 
and  short.  Keeping  pace  with  Hildegarde's  eager  steps  I 
entered  at  one  end  and  walking  rapidly  halted  near  the 
centre  of  the  block. 

"Sniff,"  panted  Hildegarde.    "Sniff." 

"Why,  it's  a  stench,"  I  replied  indignantly,  and  instead 
of  sniffing  I  held  my  nose.  "What  on  earth  is  it?" 

"Cesspools,"  she  assured  me.  "Those  houses  are  aw- 
fully old.  There  is  not  a  dram  in  this  street.  Typhoid  in 
the  summer,  croup  and  pneumonia  in  the  whiter — people 
die  like  flies.  Jack  Harland  says  we  may  have  a  few  cases 
of  Asiatic  cholera  here  this  fall  if  the  hot  weather  will  only 
continue  long  enough." 

I  stared  at  her — a  tall,  voluptuously  developed  woman  of 
twenty-six.  Her  eyes  were  large,  blue-gray,  and  expres- 
sive. Her  brows  were  dark  and  well  defined,  her  mouth 
like  a  buttonhole.  Her  nose,  though  not  large,  curved  over 
it,  and  reminded  me  of  the  beak  of  a  parrot.  Nature,  as 
though  begrudging  the  generous  amount  of  material  used 
in  making  one  woman,  had  not  only  skimped  her  chin  but 
taken  a  snip  out  of  the  middle  of  it. 

"Don't  you  love  it?"  she  panted,  her  face  shining  with 
enjoyment.  "Don't  you  love  it?" 

"I  think  it  is  horrible  that  people  have  to  live  in  such 
holes." 

"W-e-e-11,  if  you  will  look  at  it  from  a  utilitarian  point 
of  view,"  my  guide  drawled  patronizingly.  Then  she  added 
with  gusto:  "From  the  point  of  the  artist  it  is  colossal. 
Swarms  of  'em  come  here — for  types,  you  know.  The 
starving  children  of  Belgium  and  famine  sufferers — colossal 
studies  V9 


BURROWING  IN  211 

"Do  you  think  they  actually  suffer  for  food?" 

"My  dear!"  Hildegarde  stopped  on  the  corner  and 
catching  me  by  the  shoulder  brought  me  to  a  sudden  stand- 
still. "I  talked  to  a  little  girl  who  lived  in  that  fifth  house. 
The  most  desperate-looking  child  I  ever  saw.  She  told  me 
she  never  had  anything  for  breakfast  before  going  to  school 
except  the  dregs  from  a  can  of  beer  and  a  left-over  potato, 
or  a  crust  of  bread.  Sometimes  she  didn't  get  the  beer — 
that  depended  on  how  drunk  her  parents  were  when  they 
fell  asleep.  Colossal!  Think  of  the  literary  atmosphere !" 

"You  come  here  for  atmosphere?"  I  inquired,  thinking 
that  the  effrontery  needed  to  commercialize  the  misfor- 
tunes of  that  child  was  what  was  colossal. 

"Not  often,"  she  replied,  puckering  her  lips  and  drawing 
her  brows  together.  "To  tell  the  truth  these  people  are 
too — too  prosperous  for  me,  for  my  purpose."  Here  squint- 
ing her  eyes  she  thrust  her  face  nearer  mine.  "To  let  you 
into  a  secret — I'm  specializing  on  the  underworld,  crooks 
and  then-  sort.  My  burglar  took  me  to  a  joint  on  the 
East  Side  kept  by  one  of  the  most  famous  crooks  in  New 
York, — in  the  whole  world.  All  his  customers  are  crooks. 
Colossal!" 

Had  I  been  a  profane  woman  I  would  have  called  her  a 
damned  fool. 

"It  may  not  be  safe  for  you — not  exactly,"  Hildegarde 
told  me,  panting  eagerly.  "But  if  you've  got  the  pep  I'm 
willing  to  take  you.  A  policeman  wouldn't  dare  go  there 
alone.  With  me,  having  been  introduced  by  my  burglar, 
it's  different.  Would  you  like  to  go  to-night?" 

"Not  to-night,  thank  you.    I  must  be  getting  back." 

"I'll  go  with  you  as  far  as  Bleecker  Street.  It's  on  my  way 
to  the  East  Side  joint  to  meet  my  burglar,"  she  agreed, 
and  we  turned  toward  Washington  Square. 

"Have  you  written  many  stories  about  crooks?"  I  in- 
quired, for,  though  she  always  spoke  of  herself  as  an  author 


212   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

and  of  everything  she  did,  even  the  tea-room  she  was  plan- 
ning, as  a  means  of  getting  material  for  her  "real  work," 
»she  had  never  mentioned  the  names  of  her  stories. 

"Not  yet."  She  panted  so  vigorously  and  her  eyes 
shone  so  eagerly  that  I  was  sure  of  having  touched  a  sub- 
ject she  liked.  "You  see  I  specialize  on  one  type  at  a  time. 
My  last  before  taking  up  crooks  was  newsboys." 

"You  wrote  a  newsboy  story?" 

"Newsboys  who  had  made  a  fortune  of  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  and  over.  It  was  colossal.  The  editor 
told  a  friend  of  mine  that  it  was  the  greatest  spread  that 
ever  appeared  in " 

"Spread?"  I  interrupted.  "I  thought  you  said  you 
wrote  short  stories." 

"Story-wrriting  as  you  understand  it  is  a  dead  art,"  she 
assured  me  solemnly.  "Pictures!  The  future  of  the  pic- 
ture story  is  colossal." 

That  night  before  I  fell  asleep  for  the  first  time  in  my 
new  quarters,  I  decided  that  Hildegarde  was  not  one  who 
would  understand  my  determination  to  live  in  the  tene- 
ments. I  never  confided  hi  her. 

During  the  months  that  followed,  working  day  after  day 
in  the  tenements,  from  eight-thirty  hi  the  morning  to  five 
of  an  afternoon,  I  never  lost  sight  of  that  determination. 
Having  decided  to  sublet  a  small  furnished  flat,  I  was  con- 
tinually on  the  lookout  for  it.  Before  I  finally  found  such 
a  flat,  Miss  O'Brien  had  demanded  my  room. 

"Miss  Porter,  Miss  Porter."  She  was  standing  on  the 
parlor  floor  as  she  shouted  up  the  stairs  to  me  on  the  top 
floor.  "I  want  your  room,  an'  I  want  it  at  onct.  An'  I 
want  you  should  know  I'm  a  lady — I'll  not  be  insulted  in 
my  own  house." 

The  insult  referred  to  was  a  note  left  on  the  hat-rack  at 
the  front  door  that  morning  on  my  way  to  work.  In  it  I 
objected  to  having  a  strange  man  sleep  in  my  bed  during 
the  day,  while  I  was  at  work. 


BURROWING  IN  213 

In  Greenwich  Village,  when  the  origin  of  tobacco-smoke 
is  feminine,  it  is  invariably  accompanied  by  crums  of  face- 
powder  and  smudges  of  rouge.  There  were  no  such  marks 
on  my  bureau.  But  the  odor  of  tobacco-smoke  in  the  sheets 
of  the  bed !  The  signs  of  soot  and  grease  grimed  hands  on 
my  towels !  I  was  paying  four  dollars  and  a  half  for  my 
room,  small  with  a  slanting  roof  and  a  half-window  on  the 
top  floor.  I  had  no  intention  of  sharing  it  with  an  unknown 
man  even  for  the  sake  of  helping  my  grunting,  groaning 
landlady. 

In  more  ways  than  one  Miss  O'Brien  was  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary. Her  name,  her  religion,  and  her  brogue  to  the  con- 
trary, she  boasted  of  being  English.  As  a  consequence  she 
was  not  descended  from  an  Irish  king  nor  did  she  have  a 
saint  in  her  family.  She  was  red-hot  for  suffrage,  because 
she  wanted  a  law  passed  to  force  women  working  outside 
the  home  to  make  their  own  beds  and  clean  their  own 
rooms. 

"'Tain't  right  for  women  in  business  not  to  do  their  share 
of  the  housework,"  she  would  tell  me,  while  leaning  on  a 
stub  of  a  broom  or  wiping  my  mirror  with  a  dirty  rag.  "I 
don't  mind  doin'  for  men — it's  only  right  I  should,  they 
bein'  men  an'  payin'  me." 

"The  women  pay  you.  I  pay  a  half-dollar  more  than 
the  man  who  vacated  it  without  giving  you  notice.  You 
told  me  so  yourself." 

"I  ain't  sayin'  you  don't  pay  all  the  room's  worth,"  she 
assured  me,  and  maybe  by  this  time  having  smeared  my 
mirror  to  her  satisfaction  she  would  be  propped  against  the 
facing  of  my  door.  "What  I  says  an'  what  I  stands  by  is 
that  it  ain't  right  for  you  and  Hildegarde  Hook  not  to  do 
your  rooms  regular — you  bein'  women  an'  not  men.  No, 
it  ain't  right,  Miss  Porter.  You  hadn't  oughter  treat  no 
woman  like  that." 

When  she  found  that  I  intended  to  take  her  at  her  word 
and  give  her  her  room,  she  became  repentant  and  offered  to 


214   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

let  me  "stay  on."  Unfortunately  for  her  good  intentions 
the  atmosphere  of  Greenwich  Village  had  become  boring. 
Even  a  woman's  hotel,  the  only  vacancy  to  be  found  at  that 
season,  promised  a  welcome  relief. 

My  stay  in  that  Adamless  purgatory  was  not  very  long. 
Before  I  had  been  there  one  week  an  old  woman  occupying 
the  room  to  the  left  of  me  objected  to  my  using  my  type- 
writer between  seven  and  eight  in  the  evening.  Before  the 
end  of  my  second  week  an  old  woman  at  my  right  positively 
forbade  me  to  touch  it  mornings  before  eleven,  and  before 
I  had  completed  my  third  week  an  old  woman  in  front  of 
me  entered  a  violent  protest  against  my  using  it  at  all.  God 
defend  me  from  idle  women ! 

In  a  fit  of  ril-take-anything-I-can-get  I  applied  to  the 
agent  of  the  Phipps  tenements.  She  had  no  vacancy,  but 
on  my  second  call,  seeing  that  I  was  near  desperation,  she 
suggested  that  I  go  talk  to  a  Mrs.  Campbell  who  lived  in 
another  house  owned  by  the  same  company.  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell was  taking  her  sick  daughter  to  Staten  Island  for  the 
summer. 

For  five  dollars  a  week,  one  dollar  and  sixty  cents  above 
what  she  was  paying  for  her  flat  unfurnished,  she  sublet 
to  me  for  the  summer.  There  were  three  small  rooms,  a 
minute  clothes-closet,  a  toilet,  gas,  and  both  hot  and  cold 
water. 

On  East  Thirty-second  Street  between  First  and  Second 
Avenues,  this  place  was  within  walking  distance  of  the  A.  S. 
P.  C.  A.,  and  so  saved  both  car-fare  and  time.  Built  around 
a  court  each  of  the  forty-eight  flats  was  so  arranged  that  it 
opened  on  both  the  street  and  the  court.  As  a  consequence 
the  ventilation  was  excellent.  Four  of  the  flats  on  each  floor 
opened  on  a  little  balcony,  and  I  was  lucky  enough  to  get 
one. 

When  I  mentioned  that  there  was  no  bath,  Mrs.  Camp- 
bell looked  pensive.  After  a  pause  her  daughter  explained. 


BURROWING  IN  215 

"There  are  two  baths — one  for  men  and  the  other  for 
women.  They  are  in  the  basement.  Sundays  people  stand 
in  line,  taking  turns  at  using  them."  She  paused  and  glanced 
at  her  mother,  who  was  still  gazing  pensively  into  space. 
"We  always—  She  paused  and  again  glanced  at  her 
mother. 

"We  always  make  out  with  the  set  tubs,"  the  older 
woman  told  me.  "It's  not  very  handy,  stooping  under  the 
china-closet,  but  it's  better  than  bathing  in  a  tub  used  by 
so  many." 

Glancing  at  the  set  tubs  I  realized  the  advantage  of  being 
small.  It  seemed  an  easy  matter  for  these  two  little  women 
to  step  on  a  chair  and  then  into  the  tub,  but  how  about 
big  me?  Yet  I  managed  it  somehow.  That  summer  the 
only  thing  in  the  way  of  bathing  I  did  was  in  that  set  tub; 
crouching  under  the  built-in  china  cupboard,  I  splashed  the 
water  over  various  parts  of  my  anatomy.  Once  you  make 
up  your  mind  you  can  do  almost  anything. 

Unlike  the  model  tenement  in  which  the  artist  lived,  this 
place  was  a  slice  of  tenement  life  in  New  York  City.  Of 
the  two  blind  sons  of  the  Irishwoman  who  had  the  flat  next 
mine,  one  went  out  daily  with  his  little  tin  cup,  while  the 
other,  who  was  not  totally  blind,  made  brooms  in  a  work- 
shop for  the  blind.  Their  unmarried  sister  was  a  trained 
nurse.  The  three  supported  the  mother,  who,  being  Irish, 
like  Lot's  wife  was  continually  looking  back  and  weeping 
over  past  glories. 

The  flat  beyond  this  family  was  occupied  by  the  matron 
of  one  of  the  city  courts;  next  came  two  more  women, 
a  Swede  and  Hollander.  The  first  was  a  forewoman  in  a 
shirt-waist  factory,  the  other  before  becoming  a  helpless 
cripple  from  rheumatism  had  been  a  dressmaker. 

Across  the  court  on  the  same  floor  was  an  Italian  tailor 
with  nine  children,  an  undertaker's  assistant,  a  clerk  in  a 
Second  Avenue  grocery,  and  the  driver  of  a  milk-wagon. 


216   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Occupying  other  flats  in  the  house  were  a  stevedore,  a  Greek 
peddler,  an  Italian  who  helped  hi  a  coal-and-ice  cellar,  a 
Hungarian  street-sweeper,  a  man  who  drove  a  dump-cart, 
a  baker,  a  butcher,  several  factory  workers,  a  cook,  an  in- 
capacitated nurse,  two  Russians  whose  business  nobody 
knew,  and  myself,  who  because  of  my  khaki  frock  was  called 
by  the  children  the  "army  nurse." 

Of  June  evenings,  when  I  first  moved  in  I  used  to  sit  on 
my  doorstep,  with  my  feet  on  the  little  balcony  overlooking 
the  court,  and  try  to  untangle  the  conversations  being  car- 
ried on  around  me  in  eleven  foreign  languages.  As  the  days 
wore  on,  the  July  sun  beat  down  on  the  tenements.  When 
there  was  a  breeze  it  was  to  be  avoided,  not  enjoyed. 
Though  hot  and  prickly  in  its  feel,  worse,  many  times  worse, 
were  the  odors  with  which  it  was  laden — the  odors  of  decay- 
ing garbage  and  the  filth  of  unwashed  streets. 

Those  torrid  summer  nights!  Instead  of  trying  to  un- 
tangle foreign  tongues,  I  used  to  try  to  stop  my  ears  against 
the  wails  of  sick  children,  the  weak  frettings  of  a  baby  too 
far  gone  to  make  louder  protests.  When  at  last,  worn  out 
by  hard  work  and  lack  of  sleep,  I  would  doze  off,  it  was  only 
to  be  wakened  by  the  shriek  of  the  baby's  mother — never 
again  hi  this  world  would  her  baby  disturb  her  neigh- 
bors. 

Or  when  by  chance  I  managed  to  sleep  through  the  first 
part  of  the  night,  the  "  French  girl"  would  have  a  brain- 
storm and  arouse  the  whole  house.  The  nightmare  scene 
that  followed !  Men,  women,  and  children  would  rush  out 
on  their  little  balconies  in  their  night-clothes.  The  more 
amiable  would  remonstrate  with  her,  reminding  her  of  the 
sick  and  sleeping  children.  A  few,  the  two  Russians  and 
an  Irishman,  would  curse  the  girl  and  threaten  to  call  the 
police. 

Though  this  girl  was  born  in  the  United  States,  the 
daughter  of  native  Germans,  she  persisted  in  calling  her- 


BURROWING  IN  217 

self  French.  Her  mother  was  a  cook  in  a  private  family 
and  the  girl  herself  had  been  trained  as  a  lady's  maid. 
Getting  " notions"  in  her  head,  so  the  mother  explained, 
she  had  proclaimed  her  intention  of  devoting  herself  to 
moving  pictures. 

Her  brain-storms  were  caused  by  her  parents  suggesting 
that  she  return  to  her  old  job  and  earn  her  own  living.  The 
loud  curses  and  abuse  she  hurled  at  them !  When  the  plead- 
ings and  threats  of  their  neighbors  failed  to  stop  this  row, 
the  musicians  of  the  tenement  would  fetch  out  their  in- 
struments and  practise  usually  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

Hideous  as  this  may  sound,  the  blast  of  the  cornet,  the 
pipings  of  a  flute  and  two  piccolos,  and  the  groans  of  a  bass 
violin  were  no  worse  than  the  curses  of  the  men  and  the 
wailings  of  the  women  and  children.  When  the  musicians 
kept  at  it  long  enough  the  "French  girl"  was  shamed  into 
silence  or  indistinct  grumbling. 

Then  there  were  nights  when  there  would  be  no  sleep — 
only  subdued  cursing,  complaints,  and  stench — the  stench 
of  unmoved  garbage,  of  the  unwashed  streets,  of  the  laun- 
dry opposite,  and  several  other  unclassified  stenches.  I 
used  to  get  up  in  the  mornings  feeling  worse  than  a  wet 
rag — like  a  wet  dish-rag  saturated  with  stench. 

All  day  long  I  trudged  the  streets,  such  filthy  streets, 
with  overflowing  garbage-cans  that  had  not  been  emptied 
for  days  and  days.  How  I  longed  to  possess  the  power 
which  the  people  because  of  my  khaki  attributed  to  me ! 

"Lady,  my  baby  is  so  sick.  The  landlord's  done  cut  off 
the  water,  and  I  has  to  go  up  and  down  six  flight  of  stairs 
to  get  every  drop  of  water  we  use.  Won't  you  please  speak 
to  the  landlord,  lady?  My  baby  is  so  sick."  This  was  a 
little  Italian  woman  on  lower  First  Avenue,  the  mother  of 
six  small  children. 

When  I  reminded  her  that  I  was  not  a  city  employee, 
that  I  had  no  authority,  she  came  back  at  me  with  the  state- 


218   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

ment  that  I  was  educated,  the  landlord  would  listen  to  me. 
By  actual  count  I  found  forty-nine  children  living  on  that 
top  floor  of  that  six-story  flat-house.  Not  one  of  them  looked 
to  be  above  eight  years  old.  Several  of  them  were  sick, 
and  the  mother  of  one  family  ill  in  bed. 

Because  the  law  forbade  the  owner  of  the  house  to  raise 
the  rent  any  higher  on  these,  his  regular  tenants,  he  had 
hit  on  the  happy  idea  of  cutting  off  the  water.  He  was 
out  when  I  got  his  office  on  the  wire.  I  left  word  with  the 
woman's  voice  claiming  to  be  his  secretary  that  if  the 
water  was  still  cut  off  at  four  o'clock  I  would  report  the 
house  to  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Children. 

This  society  may  have  been  as  helpless  in  the  matter  as 
the  one  I  represented,  but  I  didn't  know  of  any  other  threat 
to  make.  It  had  the  desired  effect. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  without  at  least  one  such  appeal 
being  made  to  me.  It  almost  seemed  that  people  had  the 
idea  that  heartless  landlords,  dead  horses,  and  deader  cats 
were  my  specialty. 

One  woman  trailed  me  three  successive  mornings  in  a 
house-to-house  search  from  East  Seventy-first  Street  to 
East  Seventy-ninth  and  Exterior  Streets.  The  first  day 
she  found  me  I  was  sitting  on  the  river-wall  in  the  shade 
of  a  derrick,  eating  my  lunch — two  Georgia  peaches. 

"It's  just  a  chance  I  seen  you,"  she  called,  as  she  crossed 
from  the  corner.  "I  told  my  daughter  if  I  found  you 
I  know'd  you'd  do  it,  and  I  set  out  to  find  you."  Halting 
in  front  of  me  she  wiped  the  streaming  perspiration  from 
her  purple  and  crimson  blotched  face. 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it,"  I  invited,  making  room 
for  her  hi  the  scanty  shade  of  the  derrick.  Though  I  had 
no  recollection  of  her  face,  I  knew  she  belonged  in  some  one 
of  the  hundreds  of  homes  that  I  had  visited  during  the  past 
few  days. 


BURROWING  IN  219 

"My  grandbaby's  got  the  browncreeters,"  she  told  me, 
as  taking  her  seat  at  my  side,  she  began  to  fan  her  face  with 
her  apron. 

"Bronchitis  is  pretty  serious  for  a  young  baby,"  I  ad- 
mitted; not  knowing  in  what  other  way  I  could  be  of  use 
to  her  I  asked :  "Do  you  want  me  to  have  it  taken  to  Belle- 
vue?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "It's  the  dead  horse,  corner  of 
Avenue  A.  You  seen  it  the  day  you  was  at  my  daughter's 
about  her  dog,  a  French  poodle." 

If  she  had  not  mentioned  the  dead  horse  I  certainly  would 
not  have  remembered  her  daughter's  dog.  All  white  woolly 
dogs  in  the  tenements,  and  about  twenty-five  per  cent  are 
white  and  woolly,  are  dignified  by  the  name  of  French  poodle. 
I  did  remember  the  dead  horse. 

"I  promised  your  daughter  to  telephone  the  Health  De- 
partment about  that  horse,  and  I  did  so,"  I  replied,  a  bit 
nettled  by  her  having  chased  me  down  after  I  had  explained 
to  her  daughter  and  numerous  others  hi  the  vicinity  of  that 
dead  horse  that  I  was  not  a  city  employee,  had  no  author- 
ity to  get  dead  animals  moved. 

"She  knows  you  did.  She  watched  and  seen  you  go  in 
the  drug-store  on  the  corner.  Last  night  when  her  baby 
was  took  so  bad  her  husband  went  after  medicine,  and  the 
drug-store  man  told  'im  you'd  called  up  about  the  horse." 
In  her  eagerness  to  conciliate  she  stopped  fanning  and  placed 
her  hot  hand  on  my  arm.  "They  never  done  nothin'.  This 
sun  makes  it  worse — all  swelled  up  and  we's  afraid  it'll 
bust." 

What  could  I  say?  I  had  done  my  best  and  nothing 
had  come  of  it.  Living  in  the  tenements  I  knew  how  hide- 
ous night  could  be  made  by  a  stench.  This  dead  horse  was 
worse  than  anything  that  I  had  had  to  endure. 

"I  thought  if  I  paid  for  the  telephone  you  wouldn't  mind 
speakin'  again."  Gouging  down  in  her  stocking  she  brought 


220   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

up  a  rusty  leather  pocketbook.  "My  grandbaby's  awful 
sick!" 

There  was  no  use  trying  to  reason  with  her,  trying  to 
explain.  Besides,  it  was  a  very  small  favor  to  ask  for  a  sick 
baby. 

She  followed  me  to  the  nearest  drug-store,  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  telephone-booth,  and  listened  while  I  begged 
for  the  removal  of  the  dead  horse — called  attention  to  the 
number  of  children  in  the  vicinity,  and  made  special  men- 
tion of  her  sick  grandbaby. 

The  next  day  but  one  I  saw  her  coming  toward  me  across 
the  hot  sun-baked  playground  of  John  Jay.  Park.  There 
were  deep  circles  under  her  eyes,  and  in  spite  of  the  heat 
her  heavy  cheeks  were  only  slightly  colored. 

"I  hunted  for  you  yesterday,  everywhere,  but  I  missed 
you,"  she  reproached,  as  I  met  her  in  the  middle  of  the 
scorching-hot  playground.  "That  dead  horse —  It's  ter- 
rible and  the  dogs " 

"Come  on,"  I  interrupted,  leading  the  way  to  the  drug- 
store. "Now  that  the  dogs  are  after  it  I  can  get  it  moved. 
That's  what  the  society  is  for — protecting  dogs." 

Back  in  the  same  telephone-booth  I  called  up  the  same 
city  department,  was  answered  by  the  same  operator,  who 
gave  me  the  same  official.  After  telling  him  that  I  was 
an  inspector  for  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.,  I  told  him  of  the  dead 
horse,  the  number  of  days  it  had  been  on  the  street,  and  that 
the  dogs  were  after  it. 

"You  must  give  us  time,"  he  drawled.  "New  York  is 
a  good  big  city,  you  know,  and " 

"Yes,  and  you  get  a  good  big  salary,"  I  clipped  in,  imi- 
tating his  drawl,  and  making  my  voice  as  insolent  as  pos- 
sible. "I  don't  care  a  whoop  about  your  time.  It's  my 
business  to  protect  the  health  of  the  dogs  in  this  district. 
I  report  at  Society  headquarters  every  afternoon  at  five. 
On  my  way  I  shall  make  a  point  of  passing  that  corner. 


BURROWING  IN  221 

If  I  see  any  dogs  around  that  dead  horse  I  shall  report  it 
to  our  manager,  Mr.  Horton.  He'll  know  what  to  do." 
I  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  snap. 

As  I  stepped  out  of  the  booth  the  boy  at  the  soda-fountain 
spoke  to  me. 

" Telephoning  about  that  dead  horse,  lady?"  He  shook 
his  head  as  he  filled  a  glass  with  fizz.  "  Wastin'  good  money. 
Must've  been  a  hundred  people  in  here  hi  the  last  three 
days  telephonin'  about  that  horse." 

"My  grandbaby's  so  sick,"  the  woman  at  my  side  wailed. 
"Seems  like " 

"Much  they  care  about  sick  babies !"  the  stouter  of  two 
young  women  for  whom  the  boy  was  mixing  drinks  sneered, 
and  she  eyed  me  insolently.  "They're  too  busy  sweeping 
Park  and  Fifth  Avenues — afraid  the  dust'll  speck  the  white 
marble  palaces  of  the  millionaires." 

She  was  good-looking,  well  dressed,  and  judging  by  her 
features  and  coloring  a  daughter  of  foreign  parents,  though 
she  spoke  without  accent.  Her  manner  was  so  pointedly 
offensive,  so  evidently  aimed  at  me,  that  the  woman  at  my 
side  resented  it. 

"'Tain't  the  lady's  fault,"  she  reproved  the  girl.  "She's 
done  all  she  could  to  get  the  dead  horse  took  away." 

"Sure  she's  done  all  she  could,"  the  girl  retorted,  taking 
her  eyes  off  me  long  enough  to  wink  at  her  thin  companion. 
"But  I've  noticed  that  social  workers  never  do  anything 
that  the  rich  don't  want  done.  Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you," 
she  added,  addressing  me  directly  in  the  same  sneering 
tone.  "If  I  made  my  living  distributing  crumbs  from  mil- 
lionaires' tables  I'd  do  just  as  you  do — perhaps." 

"Perhaps  you  might,"  I  consented  cheerfully,  glad  to 
get  a  candid  opinion  of  social  workers  from  the  class  among 
whom  they  work.  "But,  as  it  happens,  you've  missed  your 
guess.  I'm  an  inspector  for  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  That  dead 
horse  is  a  menace  to  the  dogs  in  my  district." 


222      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"Menace  to  dogs!"  the  thin  girl  giggled,  and  she  broke 
the  straw  through  which  she  was  drinking.  "Thinks  they'll 
do  more  for  dogs  than  children !" 

"She  thinks  dead  right.  The  animal  society's  got  a 
lot  of  rich  swells  behind  it,"  the  soda  boy  asserted. 

"That  oughtn't  to  surprise  you,"  the  stout  girl  remarked, 
turning  on  her  thin  friend.  "You  heard  that  lady  from 
Park  Avenue" — how  she  sneered  the  word  lady — "call  that 
bow-legged  little  boy  a  monster  because  she  thought  he 
was  mistreating  a  yellow  pup." 

With  her  soda-water  still  untasted  she  turned  back  to 
me.  "Little  bow-legs  said  he  was  seven,  but  he  didn't  look 
to  be  more  than  five.  He'd  been  playing  in  the  park  with 
his  younger  brother  and  sister,  and  was  taking  them  home. 
One  of  the  younger  ones  was  leading  the  pup,  had  a  string 
in  its  collar.  They'd  got  as  far  as  Park  Avenue  when  ma- 
dame  pounced  on  them.  The  names  she  called  those  three 
kids!" 

"The  pup  was  a  poor,  dear  helpless  doggie,"  the  thin 
girl  giggled. 

"She  said  the  pup  was  half-starved,"  the  stout  girl  went 
on.  "I  believe  she  was  right  about  that.  The  children 
didn't  look  as  if  either  of  them  had  ever  had  a  square 
meal." 

"That's  the  way  they  all  are — those  rich  women,"  as- 
serted a  man  in  overalls,  who  was  standing  at  the  prescrip- 
tion-counter. "They  think  more  of  animals  than  of  their 
own  kind.  What  did  youse  say  to  the  jane?" 

"Who,  us?"  the  thin  girl  giggled  between  draws  on  her 
straw.  "We  kept  out  of  her  sight.  We  work  in  a  specialty 
shop  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  she  was  one  of  our  regular  cus- 
tomers." 

"'Fraid  of  you  job,"  the  man  in  overalls  commented. 
"Knockin'  the  bread  out  your  own  mouth  wouldn't  help 
the  kids  none." 


BURROWING  IN  223 

"It  would  help  the  kids  if  we'd  make  the  city  government 
clean  the  tenement  streets  instead  of  wasting  time  dusting 
in  front  of  vacant  houses.  They  don't  get  much  more 
than  dust,  and  those  houses  are  vacant  ten  months  in  the 
year,"  the  stout  girl  asserted,  as  staring  at  me  she  waited 
for  me  to  reply. 

"If  we  lived  up  to  our  national  professions,"  I  said, 
putting  into  words  the  thought  that  had  been  in  my  mind 
since  the  first  day  I  began  to  work  in  the  tenements,  "the 
street-cleaners  would  begin  in  the  tenements,  where  the 
greatest  number  would  be  benefited.  In  a  democracy 
where  the  majority  is  supposed  to  rule,  human  life  should 
be  considered  before  property — babies  should  be  more 
valuable  than  empty  houses." 

"I  see  'em  starting  to  clean  the  streets  in  the  tene- 
ments!" the  thin  girl  jeered. 

"If  they  don't  you'll  see  tenement  people  living  hi  those 
palaces,  and  the  people  from  the  palaces  living  in  the  tene- 
ments," the  stout  girl  retorted  passionately.  "They  done 
it  in  Russia  and  we'll  do  it  here.  Within  ten  years;  I'm 
giving  it  to  you  straight." 

"  Youse  said  it,"  the  man  in  overalls  agreed  emphatically. 

I  glanced  into  the  faces  of  the  six  persons  about  me. 
The  prescription  clerk's  features  wore  the  mask  of  those 
whose  mental  attitude  is  I-hold-my-tongue-and-let-you- 
do-the-talking.  The  eyes  of  the  pale  boy  at  the  soda- 
fountain  were  like  smouldering  fires  ready  to  flame  with 
any  powerful  emotion.  The  square  jaw  of  the  man  in 
overalls  reminded  me  of  a  bull-dog.  Of  the  three  women 
the  stout  girl  alone  possessed  the  faculty  for  logical  reason- 
ing, yet  the  other  two,  once  then*  emotions  were  aroused, 
would  outstrip  her,  run  ahead  of  her,  leading  a  mob  to 
burn,  kill,  destroy. 

"They've  done  it  in  Russia;  we'll  do  it  here."  It  was 
entirely  evident  that  the  five  agreed  with  her  assertion. 


224   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Ten  years  between  our  present  condition  and  revolu- 
tion! Her  one  alternative? — that  the  government  stop 
sacrificing  the  masses  in  the  interest  of  the  classes.  The 
reign  of  terror  hi  France,  the  red  horror  in  Russia — what 
would  it  be  in  the  United  States  when  our  turn  came? 

On  my  way  to  the  offices  of  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  that  after- 
noon I  saw  that  the  dead  horse  had  been  removed  and  the 
asphalt  carefully  washed  clean. 

"The  animal  society's  got  rich  swells  behind  it.  Our 
children  ain't  got  nobody."  The  words  of  the  slumbrous- 
eyed  boy  at  the  soda-counter  rang  in  my  ears. 

At  that  time  influenza  hung  like  a  cloud  no  bigger  than 
a  man's  hand  over  New  York  City,  from  which  it  would 
spread  over  the  whole  Union. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  SCOURGE 

WHENEVER  I  think  of  the  influenza  epidemic  in  New  York 
City  there  flashes  before  me  a  series  of  mental  pictures, 
pictures  so  indelibly  stamped  on  my  mind  that  I  believe 
they  will  go  with  me  to  the  grave.  In  each  of  them,  hi 
all  of  them,  I  see  myself  walking  through  the  slums  of  the 
great  city  as  through  the  Valley  of  the  shadow  of  Death. 

But  unlike  the  valley  through  which  Christian  passed  I 
could  not  make  out  even  the  narrowest  of  safe  pathways. 
So  far  as  my  vision  extended  my  next  step  might  plunge 
me  into  the  ditch  wherein  the  blind  lead  the  blind,  or  into 
some  bottomless  quag.  And  always  over  me,  over  the  whole 
of  each  of  these  pictures,  Death  spread  his  black  wings. 

In  none  of  these  pictures  do  I  see  myself  ill  with  influ- 
enza. Yet  I  had  it.  According  to  my  diary  I  remained 
in  bed  one  day,  took  five  capsules,  and  had  one  meal 
brought  to  me  by  a  young  music-teacher  who  occupied  the 
room  under  mine  in  Miss  O'Brien's  Greenwich  Village 
rooming-house.  This  young  woman  had  a  music  class  in 
New  Jersey,  from  which  after  a  lesson  she  returned  with 
a  slight  cold.  Within  twenty-four  hours  she  had  an  un- 
mistakable case  of  the  "flu." 

Being  the  only  other  woman  roomer — Hildegarde  Hook 
having  failed  to  make  her  tea-room  go  had  gone  to  live  in 
her  basement — it  fell  to  my  lot  to  see  that  the  music- 
teacher  did  not  starve.  Mornings  before  going  to  work  I 
would  go  to  Sixth  Avenue  and  buy  food  and  medicines  to 
last  her  during  the  day,  and  evenings  on  my  return  from 
work  I  would  again  go  shopping,  getting  what  was  neces- 
sary to  make  her  night  comfortable. 

225 


226   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Just  when  she  was  able  to  crawl  out  of  her  bed  I  crawled 
into  mine.  Besides  a  few  outstanding  facts,  all  the  details 
of  my  attack  of  influenza  have  been  rubbed  from  my 
memory. 

But  nothing  can  ever  erase,  or  I  believe  make  less  vivid, 
my  memory  of  Bellevue  Hospital  during  those  terrible 
heart-breaking  months — packed  beyond  its  doors  newly 
admitted  patients  had  to  wait  in  passageways  on  stretch- 
ers resting  on  chairs  or  other  makeshift  props.  No  sick 
person  may  be  turned  away  from  the  doors  of  New  York's 
great  city  hospital;  room  must  be  found  for  them  however 
crowded  the  wards,  however  overworked  the  nurses  and  the 
doctors.  How  those  nurses  and  doctors  worked  during  the 
influenza !  how  everybody  connected  with  Bellevue  worked ! 
To  remain  on  duty,  going  without  sleep  and  snatching  a  few 
mouthfuls  of  food  when  opportunity  offered,  was  not  con- 
sidered worth  mentioning — so  many  nurses  and  doctors  did 
more. 

While  the  pressure  on  Bellevue's  staff  of  social  service 
workers  was  very  great,  far  above  normal,  it  was  not  so 
continuous.  Though  their  days  did  stretch  into  the  nights 
they  did  finally  get  home  for  a  few  hours'  rest  and  sleep. 
There  are  persons  who  claim  that  Miss  Wadley,  the  head 
of  the  social  service  department,  did  not  leave  her  desk 
during  the  entire  epidemic; — that  day  and  night  she  sat 
there  at  the  telephone,  listening  to  pleadings  from  parents 
that  she  send  assistance  to  sick  ones  left  at  home,  or  to  the 
demands  of  persons  half-mad  with  anxiety  that  she  locate 
for  them  some  one  dear  to  them  who  had  failed  to  return 
home. 

For  that — the  unexplained  disappearance  of  persons — 
was  one  of  the  hideous  features  of  the  epidemic  in  the  tene- 
ment districts.  The  workers  of  a  family,  scourged  on  by 
the  additional  necessity  of  having  sickness  in  their  home 
circle,  would  start  out  of  a  morning  when  they  themselves 


THE  SCOURGE  227 

felt  ready  to  drop.  During  the  day,  while  at  work,  they 
would  drop  and  be  taken  to  a  hospital.  Even  had  their 
employers,  or  fellow  employees,  the  inclination  to  notify  the 
family  of  the  stricken  one,  they  would  not  be  able  to  do 
so,  because  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  they  did 
not  know  their  home  address. 

Because  I  was  not  a  trained  nurse  Miss  Wadley  set  me 
to  work  running  down  missing  parents,  and  putting  children 
orphaned  during  the  epidemic  out  to  board.  It  was  while 
looking  up  the  parents  of  Francisco  LaCastro  that  I  was 
first  brought  face  to  face  with  the  puzzling  dread  caused 
by  a  person  dropping  out  of  sight.  Miss  Wadley  was  noti- 
fied by  the  hospital  that  Francisco,  though  able  to  leave 
the  hospital,  had  not  been  called  for  by  his  parents.  She 
turned  the  case  over  to  me.  According  to  Francisco's 
entrance-card,  he  was  three  years  old,  and  lived  at  a  cer- 
tain number  on  Sullivan  Street. 

Accustomed  to  tenement  conditions,  on  reaching  the  ad- 
dress I  set  about  looking  for  the  janitor.  After  much 
knocking,  the  door  was  opened  by  a  tiny  girl.  Yes,  her 
mother  was  janitor — here  the  tiny  mite  began  to  sob. 
From  her  sobs  I  learned  that  a  policeman  in  a  hospital 
wagon  had  carried  her  mother  off.  Furthermore,  that  her 
father  had  been  in  a  hospital,  but  was  out  and  had  gone  to 
work.  Also  that  three  children  older  and  two  younger 
than  herself  were  still  in  the  hospital. 

One  of  many  peculiar  features  of  tenement-dwellers 
is  that  few  of  them  know  the  names  of  their  neighbors, 
even  when  on  ultimate  terms.  A  janitor  knows  the  names 
of  the  persons  occupying  flats  in  her  house  because,  on 
receiving  rent,  she  has  to  give  a  receipt.  This  house  on 
Sullivan  Street  was  occupied  exclusively  by  Italians. 
Though  I  called  at  every  one  of  the  twenty-four  flats  no 
one  could  tell  me  anything  about  the  LaCastro  family. 

On  the  fifth  floor  my  knock  at  one  of  the  doors  was  not 


228   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

answered.  Deciding  that  this  must  be  the  flat  occupied 
by  Francisco's  parents,  I  made  a  second  trip  through  the 
house  looking  for  some  one  who  could  tell  me  anything 
about  the  persons  who  lived  hi  it.  After  many  questions 
I  finally  learned  that  the  silent  flat  had  been  occupied  by 
the  family  of  a  man  who  brought  home  bread  each  night, 
"grand  bread." 

Nobody  could  tell  me  what  had  become  of  the  man  or 
his  wife,  only  that  two  of  his  children  had  been  taken 
away  by  their  grandmother.  Where  did  this  grandmother 
live?  Then  recalling  that  a  notification  had  been  sent  by 
Bellevue  to  Francisco's  parents,  I  went  after  the  postman. 
Fortunately,  I  found  him  on  the  block.  He  gave  me  an 
address  on  Bleecker  Street. 

I  found  the  grandmother,  an  ancient  Spanish  dame,  and 
with  the  aid  of  a  five-year-old  neighbor  learned  that  she 
was  treasuring  six,  to  her  unreadable,  communications  from 
Bellevue.  Five  of  these  were  black-bordered,  and  an- 
nounced the  death  of  her  daughter  and  four  of  that  daugh- 
ter's children.  Francisco  was  the  only  member  of  her 
daughter's  family  left. 

"But  your  daughter's  husband,  Francisco's  father,  what 
has  become  of  him?"  I  asked. 

When  this  was  translated  to  her  she  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. When  I  asked  my  five-year-old  interpreter  what 
the  old  woman's  shrug  meant  I  received  another  shrug  for 
my  pains.  Near  my  wits'  end  I  hit  on  the  plan  of  taking 
both  ancient  dame  and  interpreter  to  the  bake-shop  on  the 
street  floor  of  the  house. 

"Sure,  I  can  speak  to  'em,"  the  young  Russian  woman 
behind  the  counter  assured  me.  "I  speak  ten  languages 
and  about  as  many  gibberishes." 

Through  this  woman  I  learned  that  Francisco's  father 
had  gone  to  work  the  same  as  usual  one  day  about  two 
weeks  back,  and  had  never  again  been  heard  from.  He  was 


THE  SCOURGE  229 

a  baker's  helper,  that  everybody  knew,  but  not  one  of  them 
could  tell,  or  even  make  a  guess,  where  he  worked.  Only 
one  of  his  children  had  been  taken  to  the  hospital  before 
he  disappeared.  Again  that  shrug. 

The  next  instant  there  came  a  wild  jumble  of  sounds. 
As  ignorant  as  I  was  of  Spanish  I  recognized  that  the  old 
woman  who  was  filling  the  door  of  the  bake-shop  was 
cursing  that  other  old  woman,  Francisco's  grandmother. 
It  was  the  other  grandmother,  the  mother  of  Francisco's 
father. 

She  called  down  vengeance  from  heaven  to  punish  the  de- 
tractors of  her  son.  He  had  not  left  home,  deserted  his 
family  because  a  new  baby  was  expected,  nor  because  his 
eldest  boy  had  been  taken  to  Bellevue  and  the  other  chil- 
dren were  ailing.  Then  wringing  her  hands  she  bewailed 
the  loss  of  her  son;  she  had  worked,  she  had  brought  him 
to  America,  and  now  he  had  been  murdered  by  some  un- 
known enemy.  How  was  she  to  find  her  boy? 

This  last  wail  being  directed  to  me,  the  only  American 
in  the  crowd  of  about  one  hundred  collected  about  the  en- 
trance of  the  bake-shop,  I  asked  the  Russian  woman  to  tell 
her  about  Francisco.  On  being  made  to  understand  she 
snatched  the  handful  of  Bellevue  notices  from  the  fingers 
of  her  son's  mother-in-law.  Though  a  poor  woman  with 
no  money  in  bank,  she  hurled  back  at  her  rival,  she  would 
take  care  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  she  would  go  at  once 
for  Francisco. 

Without  the  formality  of  getting  either  hat  or  coat  she 
boarded  the  next  surface-car.  On  returning  to  Bellevue 
I  learned  that  Francisco  had  been  turned  over  to  his  grand- 
mother. Writing  out  a  history  of  the  case  I  marked  it 
closed. 

Some  ten  days  later,  between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  of 
an  evening,  there  walked  into  the  reception-room  of  the 
social  service  department  a  man  so  thin  and  pale  that  but 


230   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

for  the  blackness  of  his  clothes  and  the  brown  of  his  hair  he 
might  have  been  almost  invisible.  He  asked  to  see  his 
wife  and  four  children,  all  in  Bellevue. 

Had  he  spoken  to  the  man  in  the  entrance  office  ?  Yes, 
and  been  sent  to  the  social  service  department.  That 
meant  trouble — the  straightening  out  of  some  tangle  or, 
perhaps,  breaking  the  news  of  a  death. 

Those  of  us  workers  in  earshot  stopped  what  we  had 
been  doing  to  listen.  When  the  man  gave  his  name, 
LaCastro,  I  realized  that  it  was  my  task,  and  stepped 
forward. 

Did  he  know  that  his  mother  had  taken  Francisco  home  ? 
I  asked.  A  wan  smile  and  a  flicker  of  light  in  his  lustreless 
eyes  as  he  told  me  he  was  glad  to  hear  that.  The  friend 
who  had  gone  out  from  the  New  York  Hospital  ahead  of 
him  had  come  back  to  tell  him  that  his  wife  and  all  his 
children  had  been  taken  to  Bellevue. 

Yes,  that  was  some  time  ago,  soon  after  he  came  to 
himself  in  the  hospital.  He  wasn't  feeling  very  well  when 
he  left  home  that  morning,  and  later  when  he  fainted  at 
his  work  the  boss  had  him  taken  direct  to  the  New  York 
Hospital.  Would  I  please  tell  him  in  which  ward  he  would 
find  his  wife  and  four  children. 

I  read  him  a  part  of  Francisco's  history,  giving  the  date 
of  each  death.  After  a  brief  silence  he  asked  if — if  he 
might  see  them?  Would  he  find  them  in  the  morgue? 
Feeling  sure  that  he  would  be  allowed,  I  started  back  to 
telephone,  to  find  out  if  he  must  go  around  to  the  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  entrance. 

He  called  me  back.  There  was  a  flicker  of  the  same 
light  in  his  eyes  that  had  shown  when  told  that  his  mother 
had  taken  Francisco.  Where  was  his  baby?  His  wife 
was  about  to  be  confined.  There  must  be  a  baby. 

That  meant  going  more  deeply  into  the  case.  After 
telephoning  back  and  forth  I  was  told: 


THE  SCOURGE  231 

" Lived  less  than  two  hours."  On  giving  him  this  addi- 
tional blow  I  turned  again  to  telephone  the  morgue. 

"LaCastro?"  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
questioned.  A  short  wait  followed.  "LaCastro,  mother 
and  baby,  buried  together,  and  four  children.  Yes,  all 
buried  the  same  day." 

The  expression  of  that  man,  not  his  face  alone,  but  the 
whole  man,  remains  stamped  on  my  memory  as  typical  of 
the  tenement-dweller  before  the  war — his  meek  acceptance 
of  conditions,  his  humility  as  he  thanked  me.  Sometimes 
I  have  wondered  if  Lazarus  may  not  have  thanked  the 
dogs  that  licked  his  sores  with  the  same  expression,  Lazarus 
starving,  with  feasting  and  plenty  surrounding  him. 

Another  hunt  on  which  Miss  Wadley  sent  me  had  a 
somewhat  different  ending.  In  this  case  the  missing  per- 
son was  a  baby  of  about  eleven  months.  The  mother, 
after  seeing  her  husband  and  five  older  children  taken  to 
hospitals  with  influenza,  had  finally  succumbed  herself. 
Now,  after  being  in  Bellevue  some  twelve  hours,  she  missed 
her  baby.  What  had  become  of  her  baby?  It  was  up 
to  me  to  find  out. 

There  came  a  time  when  I  all  but  gave  up  hope  of  find- 
ing out.  It  was  near  the  middle  of  the  day,  after  I  had 
run  down  everything  that  had  the  slightest  semblance  of  a 
clew.  It  was  in  a  tenement  below  Brooklyn  Bridge,  one 
of  those  tall,  narrow  tenements,  jammed  between  other  tall, 
narrow  tenements.  Dark  and  smelly,  with  crooked  stone 
steps  and  slimy  stone  walls.  The  flat  in  which  the  family 
lived  was  on  the  next  to  the  top  floor,  and  by  much  search- 
ing I  discovered  a  woman  who  knew  them,  and  who  also 
could  speak  enough  English  to  tell  me  all  she  knew.  Hav- 
ing begun  with  this  woman,  after  four  hours'  fruitless  search 
I  came  back  to  her. 

Sure,  she  would  show  me  the  flat  in  which  the  Kousch- 
mitzky  family  lived.  She  had  been  there  when  the  am- 


232   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

bulance  came  for  the  mother,  and  the  officer  had  handed 
her  the  key.  Having  failed  to  learn  anything  by  other 
means  I  thought  there  might  be  a  chance  of  getting  her  to 
remember  some  fact,  some  clew  overlooked  or  forgotten, 
by  taking  her  into  the  flat. 

We  had  hardly  set  foot  in  the  rooms  before  her  baby  on 
the  top  floor  began  to  yell.  Mother-like  she  was  out  and 
running  up  the  stairs  before  I  caught  my  breath.  Realizing 
that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait,  I  dragged  a  chair 
to  the  one  window  showing  a  light  nearest  daylight,  and 
sat  down. 

I  was  so  tired  that  I  must  have  dozed  off  for  a  second  or 
two.  Something  aroused  me,  and  listening  I  became  con- 
scious of  a  fault  sound,  something  in  the  room  stirring. 
The  door  of  the  flat  was  shut,  the  sound  was  between  me 
and  it.  My  heart  in  my  mouth,  I  rose  noiselessly  to  my 
feet  and  stood  listening,  listening  hard. 

The  sound  was  more  distinct  though  still  faint.  It  was 
as  though  something,  something  soft  was  being  dragged 
across  the  floor.  Listening  breathlessly  I  located  the  sound 
and  turned  my  eyes  toward  the  bed. 

The  dirtiest  baby  I  had  ever  seen  came  crawling  out. 
No  floor-cloth  was  ever  dirtier  than  that  youngster's  clothes. 
And  it  was  as  full  of  chuckles  and  coos  as  its  clothes  were 
of  dust.  Never  a  cry  nor  a  whine.  It  cooed  when  I  spoke 
to  it,  chuckled  when  I  took  it  up.  When  the  neighbor 
came  racing  back  and  gave  it  a  sup  of  her  baby's  milk  it 
gurgled  with  delight. 

If  my  memories  of  the  influenza  epidemic  could  all  end 
as  my  search  for  that  baby  did !  There  would  be  no  long 
line  of  coffins  before  a  church  in  the  tenement  districts  wait- 
ing for  burial.  Neither  could  I  call  to  mind  a  closed  door, 
leading  to  the  front  room,  the  one  room  in  the  flat  in  which 
there  was  outside  ah*. 

The  mother  had  died  in  Bellevue,  two  small  children  were 


THE  SCOURGE  233 

still  there.  The  two  older  girls — both  had  been  working 
before  stricken  down  by  the  "flu" — refused  to  go  to  the 
hospital,  stubbornly  remaining  at  home.  It  was  my  second 
visit — made  not  because  it  was  part  of  my  work,  but  on 
my  own  initiative,  in  the  hope  of  persuading  them  to  go 
to  a  hospital.  Failing  in  this,  I  asked: 

"Why  don't  you  girls  go  into  the  front  room?  The 
windows  open  on  the  avenue;  you'd  get  outside  air.  That 
court  is  no  wider  than  a  well."  I  waited.  Both  girls  cast 
down  their  eyes.  Then  I  added:  "I  can  get  the  woman 
next  door  to  help  me  move  your  beds."  I  made  a  move 
toward  the  entrance-door. 

The  elder  of  the  two  sisters  threw  out  her  hand.  There 
was  an  expression  of  desperation  in  the  gesture  that  brought 
me  quickly  to  a  halt. 

"Father's  in  there,"  she  said,  in  a  soundless  sort  of  tone. 

"Your  father?"  I  questioned,  and  for  a  moment  fancied 
she  had  gone  mad,  for  I  distinctly  recalled  that  they  had 
told  me  of  their  father's  death,  how  he  had  insisted  on  going 
to  their  mother's  funeral  and,  catching  more  cold,  had  died 
that  night.  "Your  father?"  I  repeated. 

"It  was  Bridges,  the  undertaker,"  the  younger  girl  whis- 
pered. "He  laid  father  out,  and — and  when  he  found  that 
— that  we  didn't  have  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  funeral, 
he  said — he  said  he  wouldn't  do  no  more." 

After  all,  is  it  more  heartless  to  refuse  to  put  a  dead 
person  in  his  grave  when  money  is  lacking  to  pay  for  a 
funeral  than  it  is  to  put  living  persons  out  of  their  home 
when  money  is  lacking  to  pay  the  rent?  Many,  many 
families  were  dispossessed  in  the  tenement  districts  of  New 
York  during  and  immediately  after  the  influenza  epidemic. 
There  was  a  great  to-do  made  about  undertakers  taking 
advantage  of  people's  misfortunes.  How  about  tenement 
landlords?  I  have  seen  enough  of  tenement  conditions 
to  know  that  the  landlords,  as  a  class,  are  better  off  in 


234      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

this  world's  goods  than  the  tenement  undertakers  as  a 
class. 

I  am  grateful  that  as  an  inspector  of  dog  licenses  for  the 
American  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals 
I  saw  the  tenements  of  New  York  under  more  normal  con- 
ditions. Though  I  remained  in  this  work  more  than  two 
years,  and  came  to  know  my  district  about  as  well  as  the 
average  New  Yorker  knows  his  back  yard,  there  are  houses 
the  door-sills  of  which  I  dreaded  to  cross:  the  house  in 
which  I  found  a  dying  mother  trying  to  suckle  a  dead 
baby;  that  in  which  I  struggled  with  another  mother, 
driven  mad  by  fear  for  her  children  when  her  husband  lost 
his  job  as  a  street-car  conductor;  and  yet  another  in  which 
I  witnessed  the  return  of  a  father  from  prison  to  his  shat- 
tered home — his  flat  stripped  of  all  that  could  be  sold  or 
pawned,  his  two  children  in  Bellevue,  and  his  wife  and  new- 
born baby  on  a  bed  loaned  by  a  neighbor,  both  dying. 

Did  Dante  picture  a  blacker  hell  than  the  slums  of  New 
York  City  during  the  influenza  epidemic?  In  all  those 
months  of  dread,  suffering,  despair,  and  death  never  once 
hi  those  tenement  districts  did  I  meet  or  hear  of  a  Protes- 
tant minister  of  the  Gospel. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
JIST  DOGS! 

JIST  dogs!  Of  all  the  positions  held  during  my  four 
years  in  the  underbrush  none  appealed  to  me  so  much  as 
that  of  license  inspector  for  the  American  Society  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  It  was  ideal  for  my 
purpose — learning  conditions  hi  the  tenements  as  actually 
existing,  meeting  the  tenement-dwellers  in  their  homes 
and  as  fellow  human  beings. 

If  the  job  were  an  easy  one  I  would  be  more  chary  about 
making  such  a  statement  for  fear  all  those  persons  living 
or  being  in  Greenwich  Village,  who  refer  to  themselves  as 
"we  villagers,"  would  descend  on  the  manager  of  the 
A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  as  boll-weevils  take  possession  of  a  field  of 
young  and  luxuriant  cotton. 

To  prevent  such  a  disaster  I  state  definitely — a  license 
inspector  for  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  earns  every  penny  of  his 
or  her  salary.  It  is  a  house-to-house,  rain-or-shine,  freeze- 
or-sunstroke  job.  It  means  going  up  and  down  [stairs 
from  eight-thirty  in  the  morning  to  five  hi  the  afternoon. 
Wherever  a  dog  is  kept  there  must  the  inspector  go. 

My  duties  as  a  social  service  worker  for  Bellevue  Hospital 
took  me  all  over  New  York  City — East  Side  and  West 
Side,  from  the  Bronx  to  the  Battery.  As  inspector  for  the 
A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  my  district  extended  from  the  north  side  of 
East  Fourteenth  Street  to  the  south  side  of  East  Seventy- 
ninth,  from  Madison  Avenue  to  East  River. 

It  included  some  of  the  oldest,  most  dilapidated,  and 
slimiest  of  filthy  tenements  to  be  found  in  the  greater  city, 
and  some  of  the  newest,  best  planned,  and  best  kept  of 

235 


236   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

the  model  tenements.  It  also  included  many  homes  of 
well-to-do  persons  and  many  palaces  of  multimillionaires. 
It  was  a  fair  slice  of  the  greatest  jungle  of  civilization. 

If  there  is  a  nationality  on  the  globe  not  represented 
in  that  district,  I  never  heard  of  it.  It  is  a  district  in  which 
anybody  from  anywhere  may  be  met  any  day.  Reading 
my  diary  it  would  seem  that  I  met  somebody  from  every- 
where almost  every  day.  That  is,  with  one  exception — 
I  never  met  a  Protestant  minister  of  the  Gospel. 

Every  profession,  every  trade  in  every  walk  of  life,  but 
never  a  Protestant  minister  of  the  Gospel. 

The  work  was  quite  simple.  On  entering  a  tenement  I 
would  hunt  up  the  janitor. 

"How  are  you,  janitor?"  I  would  greet,  and  the  rougher 
and  more  dishevelled  the  woman  the  more  courteously 
sympathetic  I  would  make  my  tone.  "I'm  your  inspector 
and  have  come  to  go  through  your  house."  Invariably  on 
this  announcement  an  expression  of  concern,  sometimes 
amounting  to  consternation,  would  flash  into  her  face. 
Then,  always  hastily,  I  would  add:  "I'm  calling  on  all  the 
dogs  in  your  house.  How  many  are  there?" 

"Oh,  dogs !"  she  would  exclaim,  and  the  troubled  expres- 
sion would  be  wiped  off  by  a  look  of  relief,  sometimes  by  a 
smile. 

Often,  instead  of  replying  to  my  question,  she  would 
protest  her  regret  that  I  was  not  some  other  variety  of 
inspector — one  who  would  make  the  Guineas  up-stairs  stop 
throwing  garbage  out  their  windows,  or  maybe  reprove  the 
drunken  Irishwoman  for  cursing  her.  Once  I  let  her  begin 
on  her  personal  woes  and  it  meant  a  half-hour  hold-up 
for  me. 

The  woes  of  a  tenement  janitor  are  many  and  various — 
like  setting  traps  on  the  stairs  whereby  she  may  fall  and 
break  her  neck,  or  pelting  her  with  rotten  eggs.  This  last 
was  a  favorite  method  during  the  war  of  dealing  with  jan- 


JIST  DOGS!  237 

itors  suspected  of  German  sympathies.  However  high  the 
cost  of  living  might  soar,  an  ample  quantity  of  unfresh 
eggs  could  always  be  found  among  Italian  tenants  to  chase 
a  German  janitor  to  her  lair. 

Jist  dogs !  Once  past  the  janitor  and  provided  with  the 
number  and  location  of  all  the  dogs  in  her  house  I  made  my 
way,  knocking  at  the  doors  behind  which  was  supposed 
to  be  a  dog. 

"How  do  you  do?  I'm  your  inspector,"  I  would  greet 
the  person  opening  the  door.  "I'm  calling  on  your  dog." 

As  with  the  janitor  this  statement  of  my  business  pro- 
duced a  reaction  pleasing  enough  to  put  the  person,  usually 
the  woman  head  of  the  family,  hi  a  good  humor.  Almost 
invariably  she  invited  me  in  to  rest  or  wait  while  she  rum- 
maged through  various  boxes  and  tin  cans,  searching  for 
her  dog's  license. 

It  was  when  I  accepted  her  invitation  that  I  got  real  in- 
formation. Chatting  about  the  family  pet  led  naturally 
to  intimate  details  of  her  family  life,  her  neighbors,  their 
jobs  and  wages. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  a  dog-loving  writer  will  make  a 
book  about  the  exploits  of  dog  heroes.  Once  he  or  she 
begins  this  work  they  will  rind  many  trails  leading  into 
the  tenement  homes  of  Greater  New  York.  I  found  sev- 
eral real  heroes  among  the  dogs  in  my  district. 

One  handsome  collie  had  saved  his  mistress  and  a  six 
months'  old  baby  from  being  burned  alive.  The  woman, 
having  been  unable  to  sleep  for  some  time,  was  given  a 
narcotic  and  fell  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon.  An 
hour  or  so  later  she  awoke:  the  dog  was  dragging  her  from 
her  bed  by  the  hair  of  her  head.  He  had  literally  torn 
her  night-dress  into  rags  trying  to  arouse  her.  The  room 
was  stifling  with  smoke  and  her  bed  in  flames. 

The  fire  was  supposed  to  have  been  started  by  a  smoker 
hi  an  upper  story  of  the  apartment-house  throwing  the 


238      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

butt  of  his  cigarette  out  the  window  and  onto  an  awning 
over  the  woman's  window.  From  the  awning  the  curtain 
caught,  and  from  that  her  bed. 

In  the  next  apartment  a  woman  had  put  her  six  months' 
old  baby  to  sleep  and  had  gone  up-stairs  to  visit  a  neigh- 
bor. A  bit  of  the  flaming  awning  was  blown  through  the 
window  and  lighting  in  the  baby's  cradle  set  its  pillow  on 
fire. 

This  was  not  a  question  of  self-preservation  on  the  part 
of  the  dog.  He  was  in  the  streets  taking  his  morning  run 
when  his  mistress  took  the  narcotic.  Knowing  he  would 
return  shortly  she  left  the  outer  door  of  her  apartment  ajar. 
The  dog,  had  he  been  actuated  by  an  instinct  for  self- 
preservation,  might  easily  have  fled  from  the  flaming  room 
and  aroused  the  house  by  his  barks.  Instead  he  risked  his 
own  life  to  drag  his  mistress  from  the  jaws  of  death. 

Another  dog  hero  lived  on  Avenue  A:  To  him  fate  was 
not  so  kind  as  to  the  collie.  When  scarcely  more  than  a 
pup  he  saved  the  life  of  a  child.  It  is  true  the  child  was 
unknown  to  him,  and  his  saving  it  was  treated  as  a  casual 
happening.  Out  walking  at  his  master's  heels  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  he  chanced  to  be  passing  at  the  instant  that  a 
two-year-old  child,  having  climbed  on  top  of  the  one  plank 
wall  separating  the  island  of  Manhattan  from  the  waters 
of  East  River,  fell  in. 

"  Right  in  after  it  went  Buster,  quicker'n  a  wink,"  the 
master,  a  little  old  cripple,  told  me  when  I  paid  my  first 
call  on  this  hero.  "I'd  taught  'im  to  jump  in  the  river 
after  sticks.  I  guess  when  he  heard  that  baby's  splash  he 
thought  it  was  a  stick.  He  was  right  there  when  she 
comes  up,  an'  got  his  teeth  tangled  in  her  skirts  somehow. 
The  way  he  paddled  with  those  front  paws  of  his'n.  He 
kept  his  grip  till  they  could  get  a  boat  to  'im  and  take  the 
baby.  Then  Buster  swum  back  to  shore.  He  was  that 
far  gone  I  had  to  help  'im  land." 


JIST  DOGS!  239 

While  listening  to  the  old  man  I  was  seated  in  his  shop 
in  the  rear  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  dilapidated  tene- 
ments in  my  district.  Besides  being  the  janitor  of  the 
tenement  he  was  a  mender  of  pots,  pans,  and  all  things  of 
metal.  The  corners  of  his  shop  were  heaped  with  a  mis- 
cellaneous collection  of  metal  articles,  useful  and  orna- 
mental, most  of  them  of  brass,  copper,  or  wrought  iron. 

"I  mends  'em  and  brushes  'em  up  a  bit  when  work  is 
slack,"  he  explained,  while  tinkering  an  old  brass  kettle, 
mending  a  leak  near  the  gracefully  curved  spout.  "It's 
surprisin'  the  price  some  people  will  pay  for  that  old  junk 
when  I  rubs  it  up  a  bit. 

"Don't  need  to  have  no  clock  down  here,"  the  old  man 
went  on,  enjoying  my  interest  in  his  dog.  "Ten  o'clock, 
twelve,  three,  and  six,  sharp,  Buster  comes  for  me.  Them's 
the  tunes  my  wife  takes  her  medicine — she's  bedrid,  been 
like  that  twenty  years.  I  used  to  try  teasin'  Buster,  made 
like  I  didn't  hear  'im  bark.  He  caught  on.  Now  he  just 
puts  his  head  hi  that  door  and  barks  onct  and  back  he  trots. 
He  knows  that's  his  job,  I  guess." 

"His  job?"  I  questioned,  not  understanding  the  tinker's 
reference. 

Having  finished  mending  the  kettle  he  put  it  to  one  side 
and  took  up  a  grinning  black  face — part  of  an  old  wrought- 
iron  fire-dog. 

"Takin'  care  of  my  wife.  She  can't  move  nothin'  but 
her  hands,  an'  not  them  real  well."  He  was  rummaging 
through  a  box  of  old  metal  parts,  trying  to  find  a  screw  to 
fit  the  hole  at  the  base  of  the  grinning  face.  "I  props  'er 
up  in  bed  mornin's  and  gives  'er  'er  breakfast.  Buster 
does  the  rest — gets  the  comb  and  brush  for  'er;  when  she 
finishes  with  'em  he  puts  'em  back  on  the  table." 

Having  found  a  screw  to  his  liking  he  held  it  between  his 
teeth  while  he  scraped  the  hole  with  a  bit  of  wire. 

"Italian  woman  and  her  daughter — they  been  livin'  on 


240      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

our  top  floor  near  thirty  year — is  the  onliest  ones  Buster 
will  let  cross  that  door-sill  whilst  I'm  out.  The  postman — '' 
He  chuckled,  as  he  fitted  the  screw  in  the  hole.  "Buster 
hears  'is  whistle  and  meets  'im  at  the  door  and  takes  the 
letters.  Julie,  my  wife,  says  he  knows  when  there's  a 
letter  from  Jack." 

Having  fitted  the  screw  to  the  grinning  face  he  began  the 
work  of  fastening  it  to  the  lower  part  of  the  fire-dog. 

"Jack's  our  grandson.  He's  somewhere  hi  France." 
Unconsciously  he  heaved  a  sigh  that  sounded  almost  like 
a  sob.  "Soon  as  Bustef  gives  a  letter  from  him  to  Julie, 
without  her  tellin'  'm  nothin'  he  trots  down  here  for  me. 
He  knows  I  wants  the  news  quick  as  the  letter  comes. 
Buster  knows." 

Coming  in  contact  with  so  many  dogs,  day  after  day, 
winding  back  and  forth  in  and  out  of  the  dirty  halls  and 
crooked  stairways  of  the  tenements,  memories  of  Buster  and 
the  lame  tinker  were  rubbed  from  my  mind.  Among  the 
bunch  of  complaints  handed  me  one  morning  at  the  office 
was  a  pencil  scrawl  about  a  dog  that  was  terrorizing  the 
neighbors  around  an  address  on  Avenue  A. 

When  the  door  of  the  flat  was  opened  to  me  I  found 
myself  confronted  by  the  lame  tinker,  with  Buster  at  his 
heels.  Behind  them  in  the  duskiness  of  the  room  I  made 
out  the  helpless  figure  of  the  wife,  propped  up  in  bed  and 
combing  her  hair. 

"This  can't  possibly  refer  to  Buster,"  I  told  them,  as  I 
handed  the  scrawl  to  the  old  man. 

"Crooks,"  he  assured  me,  and  having  read  the  letter  he 
passed  it  on  to  his  wife. 

"This  is  the  only  house  hi  this  block  that  hasn't  been 
broke  hi,"  she  piped,  her  voice  thinned  by  weakness  and 
much  suffering.  "It's  Buster.  Crooks  can't  git  by  my 
dog." 

"It's  a  wonder  they  don't  poison  him,"  I  told  them, 


JIST  DOGS!  241 

recalling  the  number  of  dogs  whose  deaths  their  owners 
attributed  to  poison. 

The  old  tinker  glared  up  at  me,  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his 
old  eyes.  Then  smiling  he  waved  one  hand  toward  his  wife. 

"It's  her,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle  of  appreciation. 
"When  he  was  a  pup  she  trained  'im.  He  won't  touch 
nothin'  'thout  it  goes  through  her  hands,  not  even  from 
me.  When  I  goes  to  the  butcher's  and  buys  'im  a  bone, 
he  won't  touch  it  until  she  tells  'im  to." 

"Tell  the  lady  'bout  the  pile  of  boiled  sponges  youse 
picked  up  in  the  yard,"  the  sick  woman  reminded  him. 

"Sure!  I  muster  picked  up  a  hundred,  fust  and  last, 
in  the  yard  between  this  house  and  my  shop.  You  see 
Buster  sleeps  in  my  shop  nights." 

"Will  a  sponge  boiled  in  oil  really  kill  a  dog?"  I  asked, 
for  I  had  heard  so  often  since  beginning  to  work  in  the 
tenements  that  such  was  the  case. 

The  old  man's  face  ceased  to  twinkle;  Julie  cast  down 
her  eyes  and  picked  at  her  bed. 

"It  does  worse'n  kill  'em,"  she  told  me  in  a  piping  whis- 
per. "It  make's  'em  pine  away  and  they  suffer  so,  howlin', 
squirmin'  with  pain,  until  you're  glad  to  see  'em  die." 

"You  see  it's  the  sponge  swellin'  inside  'em,"  the  tinker 
supplemented.  "When  you  boils  a  sponge  it  natu'ly  shrivels 
up  to  a  hard  knot.  The  dog  gnaws  it  to  get  the  oil, — swal- 
lows it.  There  ain't  nothin'  to  be  done  unless  you  take 
all  'is  insides  out.  We  lost  four  that  way  before  we  got 
Buster." 

Though  I  received  four  other  pencilled  scrawls  written  by 
the  same  hand  I  paid  no  attention  to  them.  The  matter 
faded  from  my  mind.  When  I  covered  my  district  I  turned 
about,  and  again  beginning  on  the  north  side  of  East  Four- 
teenth Street,  worked  my  way  up-town.  When  I  reached 
the  tinker's  address  I  crossed  the  little  back  yard  and 
stopped  in  the  door  of  his  shop. 


242   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 


He  was  busy  mending  a  leak  in  an  agate  saucepan. 

"You  see  I'm  back  again,"  I  announced  cheerfully. 
"No  use  asking  if  you  have  renewed  Buster's  license." 

"Yes.  I  got  it  out,"  he  replied,  and  though  he  paused 
in  his  work  long  enough  to  glance  up  at  me  he  did  not 
smile. 

Such  a  different  tinker!  Something  must  have  gone 
wrong.  I  glanced  about  the  little  shop.  The  place  had 
been  stripped.  Except  for  the  saucepan,  a  couple  of  pots, 
and  his  tools,  all  on  the  work-bench  at  his  side,  there  was  no 
evidence  of  his  trade.  The  heaps  of  old  brass,  copper,  and 
wrought  iron  that  had  filled  all  the  corners  were  gone. 

"You've  had  a  clearing  out,"  I  said,  letting  him  see  me 
looking  about  the  shop. 

"Thieves,"  he  replied,  in  the  same  colorless  tone. 
"Broke  in  and  carried  off  everything.  These  are  new." 
He  motioned  to  the  few  tools  beside  him. 

"Where  was  Buster?" 

"I  had  him  killed." 

I  could  not  believe  my  ears.  And  the  tragedy  of  the 
man's  eyes ! 

"You  had  Buster  killed !    What  had  he  done?" 

"He  hadn't  done  nothin'  but  what  he  had  oughter  do — 
what  I'd  taught  'im  to  do."  His  tone  reminded  me  of  a 
dense  fog  so  saturated  with  grayness.  "He  bit  a  post- 
man." 

Pushing  aside  the  two  pots  I  took  my  seat  on  his  work- 
bench. 

"How  did  he  happen  to  bite  the  postman?"  I  asked, 
thinking  it  might  do  him  good  to  talk  his  trouble  out.  "I 
thought  Buster  and  the  postman  understood  each  other?" 

"He  was  a  new  postman,  one  of  them  fresh  guys.  Buster 
barked  at  'im,  and  Julie  called  to  'im — warned  'im  that  the 
dog  would  bite.  'Stead  of  'im  doin'  what  he  was  told  he 
tried  to  step  into  the  room."  He  straightened  up  and  his 
eyes  flashed  with  pride.  "Buster  pounced  on  'im,  'most 


JIST  DOGS!  243 

tore  his  shirt  often  'im.  I  wish  to  God  he'd  a  tore  his  liver 
out,  so  I  do." 

"If  he  didn't  draw  blood  why  did  you  have  him  killed?" 
I  demanded  sternly,  for  in  spite  of  my  sympathy  with  the 
old  man  it  appeared  to  me  that  the  dog  hadn't  had  a  square 
deal. 

"The  postmaster  wrote  me  a  letter,"  he  answered,  as 
he  fumbled  in  an  old  leather  wallet. 

It  was  on  the  official  paper  of  the  Post-Office  Department 
of  the  United  States,  and  was  signed  by  the  postmaster  of 
New  York  City.  Coldly  official,  it  informed  the  old  tinker 
that  unless  he  got  rid  of  the  dog  he  would  have  to  get  his 
mail  at  the  general  delivery  window  of  the  general  post- 
office. 

"I  tried  to  get  'em  to  leave  my  mail  in  the  store  next 
door,  or  with  a  friend  in  the  next  block."  He  shook  his 
head.  "It  was  get  rid  of  Buster  or  go  to  the  general  post- 
office."  He  paused,  but  seeing  that  he  had  more  to  say  I 
waited.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  Jack's  bein'  somewheres 
in  France,  I'd  a  gone  to  the  general  office.  Jack's  all  we've 
got,  an'  it  didn't  seem  right  we  should  risk  not  hearin'  from 
'im,  or" — he  paused  and  swallowed  hard — "or  the  govern- 
ment in  case  anything  happened  to  'im." 

Killing  so  faithful  and  intelligent  a  dog  without  a  more 
serious  attempt  to  placate  the  "fresh  guy"  seemed  a  dread- 
ful act.  But  knowing  the  helplessness  of  the  ignorant 
poor  in  New  York  City,  I  realized  the  injustice  of  finding 
fault  with  the  old  tinker. 

Halting  in  the  door  of  the  shop  on  my  way  out  I  glanced 
back  at  its  empty  corners. 

"I  suppose  the  persons  who  wrote  me  those  complaints 
against  Buster  did  all  this,"  I  remarked.  "It  didn't  take 
them  long  to  find  out  that  Buster  was  gone." 

"They  sandbagged  the  woman  on  our  top  floor  the  night 
after  Buster  was  killed." 

Amazed  I  turned  and  stared  at  the  old  tinker. 


244      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"You  don't  mean  the  old  Italian  mother,  who  was  work- 
ing and  saving  to  get  money  to  return  to  Italy  and  die  in 
her  old  home?"  I  finally  questioned. 

The  tinker  nodded.  He  was  scraping  the  bottom  of  a 
pot  preparatory  to  applying  solder. 

"They  most  worked  theyselves  to  death,  her  and  her 
daughter.  Done  piece-work  nights  and  Sundays,"  he  told 
me,  glancing  up  from  his  task  of  blowing  on  the  charcoal 
in  his  little  bucket  with  his  little  bellows.  "The  mother 
was  goin'  back,  had  drawed  their  savin'  out  the  bank  that 
day,  an'  was  goin'  down  the  next  mornin'  to  pay  for  her 
passage  and  get  the  balance  of  her  money  changed.  She 
stopped  in  on  her  way  up  to  say  a  few  words  to  Julie — 
she  always  done  that  evenin's  comin'  in  from  work.  'Bout 
half  an  hour  later  her  daughter  found  her  in  the  hall  out- 
side their  door.  She'd  been  knocked  senseless  and  her 
clothes  'most  tore  off  looking  for  her  money." 

There  was  a  short  silence  and  the  old  man  began  to  tinker 
with  the  pot. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  I  asked. 

"On  the  Island."  The  solder  being  melted  he  applied 
it  to  the  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  pot.  "They  kept  her 
in  Bellevue  till  they  seen  there  wasn't  no  chance  of  curin' 
her.  You  see,  it's  her  brain,"  he  explained  as  he  wiped  his 
hands  on  his  bedticking  apron.  "Some  of  it  oozed  out 
where  the  sand-bag  broke  her  skull.  It  stands  to  reason  she 
never  can  have  right  good  sense  again,  and  one  side  of  her's 
paralyzed  worse  than  Julie's." 

Tommaso  was  a  brindle  and  white  mongrel.  Though  he 
had  never  rescued  a  woman,  a  baby,  or  any  other  human, 
so  far  as  I  learned,  from  a  violent  death,  I  number  him  first 
among  the  dog  heroes  of  my  district.  His  master  and 
mistress,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pasquali  Dominic,  were  both  na- 
tives of  Italy.  Meeting  for  the  first  time  in  New  York  they 
were  married  at  the  City  Hall  August  9,  1898.  Twenty 


JIST  DOGS!  245 

years,  one  week,  and  five  days  after  this  happy  event  I 
paid  my  first  call  on  Tommaso. 

Crouched  in  one  corner  of  the  family's  basement  kitchen- 
living-room-bedroom,  he  was  trying  not  to  watch  too 
greedily  the  spoonfuls  of  thin  porridge  and  the  hunks  of 
Italian  bread  being  taken  in  alternate  swallows  by  the  five 
youngest  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dominic's  eighteen  children. 
Being  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a  hero  he  rose  on  my  entrance. 

"Go  way,  Tommaso.  Come  in,  lady;  he  don't  bite," 
Mrs.  Dominic  greeted  me. 

On  my  accepting  an  invitation  to  take  a  seat  Tommaso 
returned  to  his  corner,  and  did  his  best  to  show  me  re- 
spectful attention  while  keeping  watch  for  his  hoped-for 
share  of  the  food — the  licking  of  each  child's  bowl,  with  a 
morsel  of  its  bread. 

"He  a  good  dog,"  Mrs.  Dominic  assured  me.  "He  take 
nothin'  'less  I  tell  'im.  Lucretia,  why  you  scrape  your 
bowl?  Give  it  to  Tommaso.  Good  Tommaso." 

Like  a  gentleman  Tommaso  accepted  the  offered  bowl  as 
though  unconscious  that  the  lickings  had  been  scraped  out, 
and  without  remarking  on  the  total  absence  of  his  share  of 
Lucretia's  bread.  In  spite  of  the  too  evident  joints  of  his 
back-bone  and  the  prominence  of  his  ribs  he  refused  to  give 
way  to  the  cravings  of  his  appetite. 

Day  after  day  he  sat  among  those  children,  watched  them 
take  food  which  might  have  been  his  had  he  been  a  hero 
of  lesser  caliber — made  a  snatch  and  fled  to  the  fastnesses 
of  crooked  stairs  and  dark  hallways  surrounding  him. 

Ah,  Tommaso !  I  know  what  appetite  suppression  means. 
I  know  how  it  feels  to  watch  other  persons  eat  food  of 
which  you  stand  in  need.  I  served  as  waitress  in  a  fashion- 
able hotel  on  the  boardwalk  in  Atlantic  City.  Jist  dogs — 
both  of  us,  Tommaso ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 
FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS 

"How  did  the  war  affect  the  tenement-dwellers?" 

That  question  has  been  asked  me  dozens  of  times. 

The  happiest  persons  I  met  during  the  war  were  in  the 
tenements.  Also,  I  will  add,  the  most  unreasonably  un- 
happy and  discontented  person  I  met  during  that  period 
was  in  the  tenements. 

Shortly  after  eight-thirty  one  sunshiny  morning,  with 
just  enough  nip  in  the  ah*,  I  was  hurrying  along  East 
Twenty-sixth  Street  sorting  over  a  handful  of  complaints 
when  a  hand  clutched  my  arm.  Glancing  up  as  I  was 
brought  to  a  halt  my  eyes  stared  into  as  discontented  and 
unhappy  a  face  as  I  had  ever  seen. 

" Where  are  you  going?"  the  woman  whose  hand  still 
clutched  my  shoulder  demanded,  and  the  movement  of  her 
lips  breaking  up  the  expression  of  discontent  somewhat,  I 
recognized  one  of  the  best  known  of  American  women 
novelists. 

"How  do  you  happen  to  be  out  so  early?"  I  countered. 
"I  remember  your  telling  me  that  you  never  allowed  any- 
thing to  break  into  your  mornings — that  you  always  worked 
until  noon." 

"Work !"  she  exclaimed,  throwing  out  her  hand  in  a  ges- 
ture of  despair.  "What's  the  use  of  work?  I  can't  sell  a 
line — not  one  line.  They  only  want  war,  war,  nothing  but 
war.  War !  I'm  sick  of  it.  Why  will  people  read  about 
the  war?" 

"Because  we've  all  got  somebody  at  the  front,  I  reckon 
— sons,  brothers,  husbands,  sweethearts,  or  at  least  a  friend," 
I  replied,  trying  to  make  my  tone  pleasant. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the  woman's  harassed 

246 


FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS  247 

state  of  mind,  whatever  the  cause.  There  were  deep  fur- 
rows between  her  brows,  and  the  lines  at  the  corners  of  her 
eyes  looked  more  like  turkey  feet  than  those  of  a  crow. 

"I  have  not,"  she  exulted.  "Not  one  drop  of  my  blood 
is  in  this  war.  My  family  don't  believe  in  war.  We " 

"I've  always  noticed,"  I  cut  in,  "that  you  conscientious 
objectors  to  war  are  damned  careful  to  live  and  own  prop- 
erty in  a  country  that  does  believe  in  war." 

My  cheeks  burned,  and  I  have  an  idea  that  I  closely 
resembled  a  spitting  wildcat.  But  I  had  listened  to  all 
of  that  sort  of  talk  I  was  going  to  swallow  from  Hildegarde 
Hook  and  her  "we  villagers"  ilk. 

"My  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  and  I  saw  that  my  one  poor 
little  cuss  word  had  shocked  her.  "I  had  no  idea  that  you 
felt  so — so  keenly  about — about  the  matter.  If  I  had,  of 
course " 

"Well,  I  do  feel  keenly  about  this  war.  I  feel  keenly 
with  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body.  There's  no  use 
discussing  it.  You  were  speaking  of  your  work.  If  you'd 
do  publicity  work " 

"Publicity  work?  I'd  be  only  too  glad  to,  but  they  say 
I've  no  training." 

No  training !  A  woman  who  had  written  a  half-score  of 
popular  novels,  a  number  of  short  stories,  and  a  multitude 
of  articles ! — no  training ! 

"But  did  they  know  who  you  are?  Did  you  give  your 
name?"  I  asked — the  idea  that  this  woman  did  not  have 
sufficient  training  as  a  writer  to  do  publicity  work  seemed 
the  height  of  absurdity. 

She  shook  her  head.  She  had  tried  every  organization, 
she  assured  me.  At  the  beginning  of  hostilities  she  might 
have  gotten  a  position  in  Washington  City,  but  the  salary 
seemed  too  small.  Now  she  regretted  having  refused  that 
— if  she  had  only  known  that  the  war  would  last  so  long, 
and  that  people  would  continue  to  read  only  war  stories ! 


248      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

She  was  over  her  head  in  debt,  she  told  me.  Every  piece 
of  property  she  possessed  had  been  mortgaged  up  to  the 
hilt.  If  the  war  continued  she  would  be  on  the  street,  with- 
out even  a  roof  to  cover  her.  What  must  she  do? 

Yet  when  I  told  her  what  I  was  doing  I  saw  the  surprise 
hi  hor  eyes  change  to  contempt.  It  was  all  right  to  go 
through  the  tenements,  even  to  live  in  them,  for  the  sake 
of  getting  material.  To  live  there  for  the  sake  of  making 
both  ends  meet,  to  make  my  living,  or  even  to  take  money 
for  my  work!  That  was  another  matter — put  me  quite 
beyond  the  pale  of  her  respect. 

When  I  assured  her  that,  beginning  at  one  dollar  a  day, 
I  had  worked  my  way  up  to  ninety  dollars  a  month,  I  saw 
that  the  last  amount  sounded  good  to  her.  And  I  also  saw 
that  even  as  the  salary  offered  by  the  government  had  not 
been  large  enough  to  get  her  to  work  for  her  country,  ninety 
dollars  was  not  sufficient  to  cause  her  to  forget  her  "posi- 
tion" as  a  novelist.  It  was  a  case  of  debt  rather  than 
dishonor. 

Suddenly  she  discovered  a  reason  to  take  a  hurried  de- 
parture. I  felt  no  inclination  to  detain  her.  While  work- 
ing my  way  from  a  dollar  a  day  to  ninety  the  month  I  had 
learned 

"I  am  the  master  of  my  fate, 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul." 

The  chiefest  of  many  reasons  why  tenement-dwellers 
appeared  happily  content  during  the  war  were:  First,  those 
who  had  sons,  brothers,  husbands,  uncles,  sweethearts,  or 
cousins  to  the  remotest  degree  in  the  service  felt  that  they 
were  doing  their  duty,  a  proud  duty,  to  their  country; 
second,  workers  were  receiving  a  living  wage,  a  vast  ma- 
jority living  decently  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives;  third, 
they  believed,  they  sincerely  believed,  that  they  were  help- 
ing to  "make  the  world  safe  for  democracy." 


FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS  249 

They  were  convinced  that  the  United  States  had  entered 
the  war,  taken  their  sons  across  the  Atlantic  "that  govern- 
ment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth."  They  believed  it  as  they  be- 
lieved in  God,  as  they  believed  in  their  own  existence. 

The  older  ones,  those  who  had  come  to  the  country  as 
immigrants,  believed  that  America  had  actually  become  the 
wonderful  Promised  Land  of  then-  dreams.  For  hadn't 
they  lived  to  see  their  own  sons  march  down  Fifth  Avenue 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  sons  of  money  kings?  Didn't 
their  daughters,  on  coming  home  nights,  tell  of  the  daughter 
of  yet  another  money  king  working  in  the  same  room,  actu- 
ally taking  orders  from  her? 

They  had  lived  to  see  the  stigma  taken  off  work.  A 
human  soul  was  a  human  soul,  regardless  of  the  "guinea's 
stamp." 

Once  the  war  was  won  they  believed  that  condition  would 
continue — that  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  rich  and 
powerful  would  continue  to  work  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
their  own.  They  believed  that  the  downfall  of  German  im- 
perialism meant  an  end  to  human  cootyism  in  the  United 
States — a  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the 
people. 

How  many  times  did  I  see  the  light  that  never  was  on 
sea  or  land  shining  in  the  eyes  of  a  tenement  mother  as 
she  told  me  of  her  son  sleeping  under  the  poppies  in 
France. 

"It  ain't  as  if  he  didn't  have  to  go  some  tune.  We  all 
has  to,"  she  would  tell  me,  with  swimming  eyes  as  her  work- 
gnarled  fingers  twisted  her  gingham  apron.  "He  couldn't 
have  gone  a  better  way — for  his  country.  He  said  that 
'imself,  when  he  was  leavin'.  'Mother,'  he  says  to  me  the 
last  tune  he  was  home  from  camp,  'mother,  I  wants  you  to 
promise  that  you  won't  grieve  none  if — if  I  goes  West.  We 
all  has  to  go  some  time,  and  a  fellow  couldn't  go  a  better 


250   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

way  than  for  his  country.  I  wants  you  to  promise  me, 
mother.'" 

I  believe  two  of  the  happiest  persons  I  ever  met  were  an 
old  Jew  and  his  wife.  Going  through  a  tenement,  a  decently 
kept  house,  I  was  directed  by  the  janitor  to  a  flat,  second 
floor  front,  east,  as  containing  the  only  dog  in  her  house 
without  a  license.  A  tousle-haired  woman  with  a  dirty 
face  and  grouch  opened  the  door. 

"Naw,  I  ain't  got  no  dog,"  she  said,  and  she  tried  to 
shut  the  door  in  my  face.  Being  warned  by  the  janitor  I 
had  put  the  toe  of  my  shoe  in. 

"What  do  you  call  that  behind  you? — a  horse?"  I  asked, 
as  a  yellow-and- white  mutt,  almost  as  ill  conditioned  as 
the  woman,  jumped  down  from  the  bed  in  the  alcove  and 
stood  at  her  heels. 

"Git  out  from  here,"  she  railed  at  the  dog  as  she  aimed 
a  kick  at  it  with  a  foot  incased  in  an  unlaced  run-down  shoe, 
without  a  stocking.  "'Tain't  mine.  I  wouldn't  tell  you 
no  lie.  I'm  too  much  of  a  lady  to  lie  about  a  dog.  It 
belongs  to  my  son;  he  brought  the  mutt  home  from 
camp  before  they  sent  'im  away.  I'm  just  keeping  it  for 
'im." 

"Is  your  son  in  France?"  I  asked,  for  at  that  tune  hav- 
ing a  soldier  in  the  family  was  the  touch  that  made  the 
whole  world  kin. 

She  shook  her  head.  "They've  sent  'im  to  another 
trainin'-camp  down  South."  Then  recognizing  the  note 
of  sympathy  in  my  voice,  she  threw  open  the  door  and 
invited  me  in. 

It  was  the  dirtiest  flat  in  a  decently  kept  tenement-house 
that  I  had  ever  entered.  There  was  plenty  of  substantial 
furniture — chairs,  a  round  oak  dining-table,  a  good  deal 
table,  and  an  abundance  of  cooking  utensils  and  crockery. 
Dirt !  The  floor  was  strewn  with  newspapers,  crusts  of 
bread,  potato-peel,  dirt,  and  more  dirt. 


FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS  251 

"Seems  like  they  oughtn't  to  make  me  pay  license  for 
my  son's  dog  an'  him  a  soldier?" 

"  That's  a  nice  dining-table,"  I  parried,  for  in  spite  of 
her  dirt  if  her  son  was  her  sole  support  I  was  willing  to 
give  her  time  to  take  out  a  dog  license. 

Being  Irish,  at  the  mention  of  her  table  she  began  to 
boast.  That  was  not  to  be  compared  to  the  one  in  her 
front  room.  The  furniture  in  her  front  room  was  some- 
thing grand.  All  the  furniture  in  her  flat  was  of  the  best, 
she  never  having  been  a  believer  in  "cheap  John  stuff." 
She'd  like  to  show  me  her  front  room  if  it  wasn't  that 
Dan'l,  her  husband,  was  such  a  one  for  throwing  things 
around. 

On  my  asking  if  her  soldier  son  were  her  only  child,  I 
learned  that  she  had  one  other  living,  a  boy  of  twelve. 
Her  husband  "worked  for  the  city,"  got  thirty  dollars  a 
week.  But  what  was  that  to  support  a  family  on.  Seemed 
like  a  rich  city  like  New  York  oughter  be  able  to  pay  better 
wages.  Also  it  seemed  like  the  government  oughter  pay 
more  to  the  family  of  soldiers,  to  make  up  for  taking  them 
away.  Her  son,  besides  making  good  money  as  a  plumber, 
was  "in  politics"  for  weeks  before  and  during  elections;  he 
more  than  doubled  his  wages  by  working  evenings. 

As  I  was  taking  my  leave  she  had  the  grace  to  apologize 
for  her  "things  bein'  strewed  around."  She  used  to  take 
pleasure  in  her  flat,  she  assured  me,  but  now  that  the 
house  had  run  down  so  there  was  no  use  wearing  herself 
out  trying  to  keep  things  up. 

"What  caused  the  house  to  go  down  so?"  I  inquired, 
glancing  around  the  well-swept  hall  and  stairs. 

"Jews,"  she  replied,  indicating  the  flat  above  her  own. 
"I  done  let  the  janitor  know  what  I  think  of  her,  takin' 
dirty  Jews  in  the  house  with  decent  Christians." 

Because  of  Eleanor  I  have  a  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for 
Jews.  Eleanor  was  my  desk-mate  during  my  first  two 


252   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

years  in  the  high  school.  She  was  a  few  years  older  than 
I,  indeed  I  looked  upon  her  as  quite  a  young  lady;  but  I 
thought  then,  and  I  never  have  changed  my  mind,  that  she 
was  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  beautiful  girls  I  have 
ever  known.  No  one  could  object  to  living  in  the  house 
with  Eleanor. 

Once  when  living  in  a  New  York  hotel  I  had  seen  three 
persons,  unmistakably  gentle  people,  turned  away — told 
there  were  no  rooms.  After  they  left,  the  room-clerk  smirk- 
ingly  remarked  on  the  gall  of  "such  people,"  thinking  they'd 
slip  hi,  when  they  knew  that  hotel  never  took  Jews.  The 
Sea  Foam,  I  was  told  by  the  head  waiter,  would  let  every 
room  stand  empty  before  taking  in  Jews. 

Recalling  all  this  I  determined  to  see  the  Jew  whose 
coming  had  caused  this  tenement-house  to  deteriorate  so 
hopelessly  that  a  dirty-faced  Irishwoman  should  lose  heart 
and  ambition.  Though  the  janitor  had  told  me  that  the 
dog  on  the  third  floor  had  a  license,  I  climbed  the  stairs. 

The  man  who  opened  the  door  might  have  stepped  from 
the  pages  of  an  old  illustrated  Bible.  He  was  small,  old, 
and  slightly  bent.  He  had  a  long  gray  beard,  wore  a  black 
skull-cap,  and  heavy  horn-rimmed  spectacles  rested  on  the 
bridge  of  his  long  hooked  nose.  The  dressing-gown  which 
he  wore  over  his  coat  had  a  purple  lining. 

On  learning  my  business  he  invited  me  in — oh,  I  must 
come  in  and  see  their  dog,  their  grandson's  dog.  The  flat 
contained  three  rooms,  an  alcove,  and  a  tiny  hall.  In  the 
front  room,  at  the  end  of  the  tiny  hall,  I  found  the  old  man's 
mate,  and  like  him  she  might  have  stepped  fresh  from  the 
pages  of  an  ancient  Bible. 

She  also  wore  her  dressing-gown,  more  gaudily  colored 
than  her  husband's,  over  her  clothes.  It  was  a  chilly  day, 
and  unlike  the  Irishwoman,  who  had  a  coal-fire  roaring 
in  her  stove,  they  had  no  heat  excepting  the  sun  shining 
in  at  their  two  front  windows. 


FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS  253 

On  a  table  at  the  old  woman's  elbow  sat  a  glass  decanter 
about  half  full  of  purple  wine,  two  wine-glasses,  and  a  plate 
of  unusual-appearing  small  cakes.  Knowing  it  to  be  a 
Jewish  holiday  I  fancied  that  I  had  interrupted  some  re- 
ligious rite,  and  was  for  beating  a  hasty  retreat.  No,  no, 
I  must  stay. 

It  was  for  then*  grandson.  A  stranger  coming  into  their 
home  so  opportunely  and  joining  them  would  insure  a 
blessing  on  their  house.  Surely  I  wouldn't  refuse  to  join 
them  in  drinking  to  the  health  of  then-  grandson,  an  Ameri- 
can soldier  somewhere  in  France. 

Then  it  all  came  out,  the  reason  for  their  little  celebra- 
tion. They  had  that  morning  been  notified  by  the  govern- 
ment that  their  grandson  had  been  cited  for  bravery. 
Yes,  he  had  been  wounded  in  battle. 

Then  there  was  a  short  silence  and  I  guessed  the  thought, 
the  fear,  that  crossed  their  minds.  It  was  not  for  long; 
they  pushed  it  aside.  It  was  for  his  country,  America. 

While  sipping  then-  grape-juice  and  dividing  my  seed- 
cake with  the  black-and-tan  dog,  the  excuse  for  my  visit, 
I  learned  bit  by  bit  that  this  grandson  was  all  they  had. 
Ever  since  the  accident  through  which  the  old  man  lost  the 
sight  of  one  eye  this  young  man  had  been  practically  their 
sole  support. 

On  my  suggesting  that  they  must  miss  his  wages,  both 
husband  and  wife  quickly  dissented.  No,  they  had  the 
government's  allotment.  Besides, — the  old  woman  glanced 
at  the  alcove  in  which  I  saw  a  narrow  bed  piled  high  with 
feather  mattresses  and  pillows, — she  kept  a  boarder.  Yes, 
it  was  her  grandson's  room,  and  the  boarder  was  her  grand- 
son's friend — a  good  young  man,  though  not  strong  and 
handsome  like  the  soldier  who  had  been  cited  for  bravery. 

Unwillingly  they  admitted  that  there  had  been  a  tune, 
just  at  first,  when  Uncle  Sam  was  not  so  prompt  as  they 
had  hoped  he  would  be.  Their  allotment  was  late.  Yes, 


254   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

it  was  more  than  a  month,  but  what  could  you  expect  with 
so  many  soldiers  on  the*  pay-roll !  The  old  grandmother 
had  applied  to  the  Red  Cross.  Since  then  they  had  had 
no  trouble. 

That  was  the  key  to  the  situation  in  the  tenements  dur- 
ing the  war — the  Red  Cross.  But  for  the  Red  Cross  mil- 
lions might  have  suffered,  and  perhaps  thousands  actually 
starved.  While  Uncle  Sam  was  occupied  with  getting  his 
fighting  machine  ready  for  action,  the  Red  Cross  stepped 
into  the  breach  and  saw  to  it  that  the  families  of  his  fight- 
ing men  did  not  suffer. 

A  dozen  times  a  day,  during  the  war  and  after  peace  was 
declared,  I  entered  homes  that  had  been  kept  together  by 
the  Red  Cross.  It  is  the  one  philanthropic  organization 
against  which  I  heard  no  complaint,  not  one. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  one  human  being  against 
whom  I  never  heard  a  word  of  censure  was  President  Wilson. 
In  spite  of  the  abuse  heaped  on  him  by  the  newspapers,  and 
the  continued  faultfinding  of  their  richer  fellow  citizens,  I 
never  heard  a  tenement  woman  mention  President  Wilson's 
name,  or  refer  to  him,  except  in  praise  and  gratitude.  His 
pictures  in  the  tenements  were  almost  as  numerous  as  those 
of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

To  the  tenement  woman  President  Wilson  was  the  man 
who  won  the  war,  brought  their  sons  back  home,  and 
stood  for  a  continuation  of  Democratic  conditions  as  exist- 
ing during  the  war.  Hundreds  of  tenement  women  gave 
me  three  reasons  why  they  wished  Mr.  McAdoo  in  the 
White  House. 

The  first  was  always  because  he  was  the  President's 
son-in-law — as  Mr.  Wilson  couldn't  have  a  third  term  they 
thought  "they"  ought  to  send  his  daughter's  husband. 
Their  two  other  reasons  were:  he  had  started  the  raise  in 
wages,  and  had  been  the  means  of  lowering  the  price  of 
coal. 


FAITH  OF  JUNGLE-MOTHERS  255 

After  the  nominations,  when  my  talk  with  tenement 
women  turned  to  politics,  I  used  to  ask  for  an  opinion  of 
the  nominees.  Speaking  of  the  man  chosen  by  the  Demo- 
crats they  would  reply: 

"  Seems  like  they  might' ve  done  better'n  get  a  man 
who'd  divorced  the  mother  of  his  children.  Don't  look 
right  to  me." 

Political  parties,  take  notice !  The  tenement  woman  has 
a  vote. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  PEST-HOUSE? 

IN  a  preceding  chapter  I  stated  my  conviction  that  in 
the  district  I  covered  as  inspector  of  dog  licenses  there 
were  representatives  from  every  nationality  on  the  globe. 
Now  there  are  a  considerable  number  of  nationalities  on 
the  globe.  Start  to  count  and  one  will  find  the  fingers  of 
both  hands  used  up  hardly  before  the  enumeration  is  well 
begun. 

In  spite  of  the  self-evidence  of  this  fact,  persons  pro- 
claiming themselves  as  interested  in  "our  immigration 
problem"  are  continually  asking  me: 

"What  do  you  think  about  our  immigration  problem? 
You've  lived  in  the  tenements  and  seen  things  first-hand. 
Which  nationality  do  you  think  we  should  let  in,  and  which 
shut  out?"  They  speak  so  eagerly,  are  so  confident  of 
my  ability  to  answer  intelligently  such  simple  questions. 

Simple  questions !  Though  I  consider  my  district  a  fair 
slice  of  New  York,  I  know  that  New  York  now  contains 
only  a  small  portion  of  the  foreign  riffraff  that  has  been 
deluging  the  country  for  the  past  forty  years.  As  I  saw 
conditions  hi  the  slums  of  New  York,  the  United  States  has 
no  immigration  problem. 

Its  immigration  problem  ceased  to  exist  twenty  years 
ago — it  became  an  emergency.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk 
about  the  United  States  as  an  asylum  for  the  oppressed 
peoples  of  the  earth.  That  is  a  beautiful  thought.  But 
the  asylum  that  admits  every  applicant,  regardless  of  his 
or  her  mental  or  physical  condition,  soon  becomes  a  pest- 
house. 

256 


A  PEST-HOUSE?  257 

Pest-house  is  what  our  country  is  rapidly  becoming. 
Indeed  I  am  not  entirely  sure  that  it  does  not  already 
deserve  that  name.  If  it  does  not,  at  least  it  is  so  infested 
with  the  germs  of  virulent  diseases  that  its  doors  should 
be  closed  until  every  suspected  inmate  is  thoroughly  fumi- 
gated. And  that  operation  will  consume  several  years. 

The  evening  before  leaving  New  York,  while  at  dinner 
in  the  Woman's  City  Club,  I  talked  over  the  subject  with 
a  woman  lawyer. 

"You  wouldn't  even  let  in  the  relatives  of  those  immi- 
grants already  in  this  country?"  she  questioned  disap- 
provingly. 

"I  would  not,"  I  replied,  and  my  tone  was  emphatic. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  just  how  you  could  do  that,"  she  pro- 
tested, and  her  disapproval  had  become  near  to  indigna- 
tion. 

"Just  three  hows:  I'm  an  American  and  believe  in  America 
first;  I'm  not  a  sentimentalist;  I'm  not  an  employer  of 
cheap  labor." 

"But  it's  not  sentimentality — allowing  an  immigrant  to 
bring  hi  his  wife  and  children,  or  his  mother  and  father," 
she  assured  me. 

"Isn't  it?  How  about  a  smallpox  epidemic?  I've  been 
pretty  near  two  or  three.  I  never  heard  of  an  uninfested 
community  begging  that  near  relatives  be  allowed  to  pass 
through  the  quarantine  for  the  sake  of  coming  to  them." 

"But  that's  different — smallpox,"  she  contradicted,  as 
resting  her  elbows  on  the  table  she  brought  the  tips  of  her 
perfectly  manicured  finger-nails  together  that  she  might 
admire  them  at  her  leisure.  "You're  an  alarmist,  my  dear. 
I've  been  practising  in  New  York  for — for  a  good  many 
years  now.  I'm  sure  if  conditions  were  so  bad  I  would 
have  known  about  it  before  this." 

In  my  diary  I  recorded  the  history  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-seven  children — cases  investigated  for  Bellevue  social 


258   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

service  department — every  one  of  them  the  children  of 
foreign  parents — both  parents.  In  only  three  cases  the 
parents  could  not  be  classed  as  paupers. 

Those  three — one  was  a  Finn,  a  printer;  his  wife  died  and 
he  was  ill  with  flu.  So  soon  as  he  got  on  his  feet  he  took 
his  baby  and  offered  to  pay  for  what  had  been  done  for  it. 
The  second  was  an  Italian  bootblack,  father  of  five  chil- 
dren, whose  wife  died  in  Bellevue.  He  not  only  willingly 
assumed  the  responsibility  of  his  children  as  soon  as  they 
were  able  to  leave  the  hospital,  but  politely  declined  both 
financial  assistance  and  advice  from  the  social  service 
department. 

In  the  third  case  the  father  was  a  Spaniard  and  the 
mother  an  Italian.  Their  flat  was  practically  stripped  of 
every  piece  of  salable  furniture  before  they  could  be  in- 
duced to  allow  themselves  or  any  one  of  their  children  to 
be  taken  to  Bellevue.  On  my  first  visit  not  one  of  them 
had  a  change  of  clothes.  There  was  one  bed,  and  two  mat- 
tresses on  the  floor.  Two  ragged  sheets,  spotlessly  clean, 
were  all  they  had  in  the  way  of  covers,  though  it  was  then 
the  middle  of  a  cold  whiter.  There  was  a  table,  two  chairs, 
a  wood-stove,  and  about  a  half-dozen  pieces  of  crockery— 
every  one  of  these  articles  was  broken.  The  pot  and  sauce- 
pan, though  old,  were  whole. 

The  committee  allowed  me  twenty-five  dollars  to  spend 
for  that  family.  Every  penny  of  it  went  for  household 
furnishings.  Later,  when  I  got  my  fingers  on  a  few  extra 
dollars,  I  called  at  the  flat  and  offered  to  spend  it  for 
clothing.  Courteously  but  firmly  the  mother  told  me  that 
her  husband  had  said  they  had  taken  enough;  she  must 
not  accept  any  more  help. 

The  parents  of  every  one  of  those  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
seven  children  were  defective,  either  mentally  or  physically, 
sometimes  both.  Even  in  the  three  non-pauper  families, 
the  bootblack  was  a  cripple,  the  Finn  tubercular,  and  the 


A  PEST-HOUSE?  259 

Italian  wife  of  the  Spaniard  had  had  both  breasts  removed 
because  of  cancer. 

I  did  not  record  the  histories  of  those  cases  because  they 
were  in  any  way  unusual.  They  are  a  fair  sample  of  the 
cases  given  to  any  and  every  social  worker  on  the  staff  of  a 
hospital  where  the  patients  come  from  the  slums  of  New 
York  City.  Of  all  the  cases  I  investigated — nearly  three 
hundred — as  a  social  worker,  there  was  not  one  child  of 
American  parentage — all  of  them  the  children  of  immi- 
grants. 

For  thirty  days  during  the  summer  of  1920  I  kept  a 
record  of  the  nationality  of  the  families  on  whom  I  called 
in  the  capacity  of  license  inspector.  Of  the  one  thousand 
and  six  families  talked  with,  eighteen  had  both  parents 
American.  In  twenty-one,  one  parent  was  American. 

Be  it  understood  that  when  a  family  claimed  ,to  be  Irish- 
American  I  rated  them  as  Irish.  There  were  a  lot  of  such 
scum  in  my  district.  To  my  way  of  thinking  the  propa- 
ganda carried  on  by  such  individuals  is  much  more  danger- 
ous to  American  institutions  and  ideals  than  that  spouted 
by  the  few  I  met  who  claimed  to  be  Bolsheviki. 

Some  of  the  most  dangerous  persons  met  during  my  four 
years  in  the  underbrush,  to  American  ideals  and  institutions, 
had  entered  the  country  after  the  declaration  of  peace. 
Four  of  them  were  prostitutes  of  that  class  known  as  street- 
walkers, for  the  time  being  or  until,  as  they  expressed  it: 

"I  meek  von  reech  haul." 

The  fifth,  having  already  made  a  rich  haul,  chanced  to 
be  visiting  her  pals  when  I  called.  All  of  these  women 
were  attractive  to  look  at,  all  claimed  to  have  come  to  this 
country  to  join  relatives,  and  all  were  preaching  the  down- 
fall of  constitutional  government.  They  were  here  to  get 
money,  and  they  didn't  care  how  they  got  it. 

They  all  belonged  to  one  of  the  oppressed  peoples  of  the 
earth.  They  were  all  Poles,  or  claimed  to  be. 


260   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

But  I  do  not  blame  the  immigrants,  neither  for  coming 
nor  for  what  they  do  after  they  get  here.  The  present  con- 
dition of  the  country  is  the  fault  of  persons  like  myself — 
Americans  born  and  bred,  the  descendants  of  the  men  and 
women  who  planted  our  colonies,  fought  and  won  the 
Revolution,  and  founded  our  government. 

Proud  in  our  own  conceit,  we  have  allowed  the  control 
of  the  country,  handed  over  to  our  keeping  by  our  fathers, 
to  slip  out  of  our  hands.  Like  a  pack  of  second-rate  shop- 
keepers we  have  lost  all  initiative,  and  assuming  an  air 
of  lofty  indifference,  pretend  to  be  unconscious  that  the 
parvenu  establishment  across  the  street  has  taken  all  the 
trade  that  used  to  belong  to  us. 

Why,  there  was  a  time  when  we  got  so  exclusive,  the 
whole  pack  of  us,  that  we  boasted: 

"No  gentleman  will  go  into  politics — such  low  associates." 

Then  Theodore  Roosevelt  came.  Being  President  of  the 
United  States  became  almost  as  aristocratic  as  tooling  a 
coach  or  breeding  dogs.  And  in  a  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people.  To  see  the  result  of 
that  un-American  snobbishness  one  needs  only  to  read  a 
list  of  the  men  holding  the  highest  political  offices  in  our 
largest  cities. 

The  descendants  of  the  men  and  women  who  settled  the 
country  and  founded  the  government  are  as  scarce  as  hens' 
teeth. 

It  is  also  the  fault  of  us  original  Americans  that  immi- 
grants have  not  become  Americanized  more  rapidly.  How 
could  any  one,  you  or  I,  become  familiar  with  the  ideals  and 
aims  of  a  Bedouin  Arab  if  we  had  never  come  in  speaking 
distance  with  a  Bedouin  Arab,  could  neither  speak  nor 
read  his  language,  and  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  careen- 
ing by  on  his  camel? 

Take  the  residential  districts  of  New  York  City,  for  in- 
stance. As  soon  as  an  immigrant  moves  in,  what  is  known 


A  PEST-HOUSE?  261 

as  "fashion"  moves  out.  It  is  that  habit  of  running  hot- 
footed from  the  immigrant  that  was  the  beginning  of  New 
York  slums.  And  not  alone  in  New  York,  it's  all  over  the 
country. 

In  the  small  city  in  which  I  am  now  writing,  the  most 
beautiful,  the  best-drained,  and  healthiest  section  is  being 
deserted.  Wonderful  homes  with  orange  and  grape-fruit 
trees  in  full  bearing  are  being  given  up,  then*  owners  moving 
to  a  newly  settled  and  less  desirable  quarter.  All  because 
of  "the  Latins" — Cubans,  Spaniards,  French,  and  Italians. 

"But  what  is  the  matter  with  the  Latins?"  I  asked  a 
woman  who  had  complained  to  me  that  her  husband  had 
refused  to  break  up  his  home  and  move  to  Hyde  Park. 

"Oh,  they're  disgusting,"  she  assured  me,  her  face  as 
expressive  as  her  words.  "The  women  do  all  then*  own 
housework,  and  they  have  so  many  children." 

Two  great  crimes — doing  housework  and  having  children. 

Small  wonder  that  the  mother  of  George  Washington  lay 
for  a  hundred  years  in  an  unmarked  grave  before  any  one 
ever  thought  it  worth  while  to  write  her  life.  She  not  only 
bore  and  brought  up  a  houseful  of  sons  and  daughters,  but 
she  did  housework — she  ground  and  stuffed  sausages  for 
family  consumption,  and  she  wore  an  apron. 

When  told  by  a  pompous  courier  that  His  Excellency  the 
Commander-in-Chief  of  the  American  and  French  Armies 
was  on  his  way  to  pay  her  a  visit,  she  replied: 

"Tell  George  I'll  be  glad  to  see  him.  Sukie,  go  bring 
me  a  clean  apron." 

Now  we've  gotten  so  snobbish,  we  the  descendants  of 
that  sturdy  old  stock,  that  the  sight  of  a  woman  next  door 
wearing  an  apron  makes  us  run  away.  Having  run  as  far 
as  possible,  we  turn  around  and  find  fault  with  that  woman 
and  her  children  for  not  imbibing  American  ideals. 

It  is  our  fault  that  in  our  country  the  immigration  ques- 
tion has  developed  into  an  emergency — if  from  an  asylum 


262   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

for  the  oppressed  peoples  of  the  earth  the  United  States  has 
become  a  pest-house. 

After  stating  that  I  consider  stopping  immigration  at 
least  for  a  term  of  years  an  urgent  necessity  to  the  health 
of  our  country,  it  may  seem  useless  to  answer  the  second  of 
the  two  questions  propounded  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter.  But  I  would  like  to  write  briefly  of  a  few  of  the 
nationalities  with  whom  I  came  in  close  contact  during  my 
four  years  in  the  underbrush. 

Jews  and  Italians  are  very  attractive  when  met  in  their 
homes.  Among  my  fellow  workers  I  often  heard  Jews 
spoken  of  as  " dirty  Tykes."  Now  I  never  succeeded  in 
learning  just  what  "Tyke"  means.  I  never  found  any  one 
who  was  sure  about  the  spelling  of  the  word.  They  would 
assure  me  that  it  meant  a  Jew,  but  why  a  Jew  they  could 
give  no  explanation. 

So  far  as  my  observation  went,  the  Jews  of  the  tenements 
are  not  a  dirty  people,  far  from  it.  Some  of  the  cleanest, 
best-kept  homes  that  I  entered  were  those  of  Jews — German 
Jews,  Russian  Jews,  Polish  Jews,  and  Jews  the  country  of 
whose  birth  I  never  learned. 

Never,  in  all  my  four  years,  did  I  receive  a  rude  word, 
not  even  a  rude  glance,  from  a  Jew.  I  never  heard  a  Jewish 
man  speak  roughly  to  a  woman  or  a  child.  I  never  had  a 
Jew  lie  to  me  about  having  a  dog,  or  claim  a  license  when 
he  had  none. 

In  my  work  I  met  many  Jews,  some  mere  children,  who 
seemed  to  me  marvels  of  quick,  straight  thinking.  At  first 
this  was  a  source  of  surprise — persons  so  humbly  placed, 
having  had  so  few  advantages,  could  think  and  decide  so 
wisely. 

As  a  rule  they  met  a  crisis  bravely,  and  I  never  knew  one 
to  flop  over,  a  spineless,  helpless,  human  jelly-fish.  That 
is  the  supreme  difference  between  the  Jew  and  the  other 
nationalities  met  in  the  tenements.  For  months  that  differ- 


A  PEST-HOUSE?  263 

ence  was  the  chiefest  of  my  puzzles — why  did  the  Jew 
always  come  up  with  his  wits  about  him? 

During  the  influenza  epidemic  I  saw  the  remaining  rem- 
nant of  many  families,  on  learning  their  condition,  lose  the 
power  to  think  or  plan  for  a  future — fathers,  with  a  lapful 
of  young  children,  would  become  as  helpless  as  the  youngest 
of  their  brood,  an  older  child  left  with  one  or  more  younger 
sisters  or  brothers.  Even  when  they  returned  to  work  and 
were  earning  the  money  that  supported  their  dependents, 
they  needed  and  begged  for  the  counsel  and  advice  of  the 
social  worker. 

It  was  never  so  with  a  Jew.  Being  a  Jew  means  know- 
ing how  and  attending  to  his  own  affairs.  That  is  the  way 
I  came  to  look  at  it.  And  after  months  of  observation  and 
much  thinking  I  found  what  I  still  believe  to  be  the  reason 
for  that  supreme  difference. 

The  Jew  has  always  thought  for  himself,  acted  for  him- 
self, depended  on  himself.  So  far  as  I  could  learn  there  is 
no  book  a  Jew  is  forbidden  to  read,  there  is  no  thought  he 
may  not  entertain.  He  has  no  one  on  whom  to  cast  his 
burdens,  he  can  gain  absolution  for  his  sins  from  no  source. 
Whether  he  wins  or  loses  is  up  to  him,  to  his  own  char- 
acter. He  stands  face  to  face  with  his  God. 

The  Italians — my  other  favorite  tenement-dwellers,  for  I 
became  sincerely  fond  of  many  of  them — are  a  laughter- 
loving,  destructive  race.  Many  of  them  are  far  from  neat 
—coming  from  the  slums  of  their  own  country  and  landing 
in  the  slums  of  New  York,  their  standard  of  living  is  low. 

Seen  in  their  homes,  among  their  family,  they  are  charm- 
ing. They  meet  their  visitors  on  that  visitor's  ground. 
However  gruff  was  my  reception,  once  I  spoke,  explained 
my  visit,  my  reception  was  invariably  cordial.  However 
dirty  and  disordered  her  flat,  however  many  children  might 
be  holding  her  skirts  or  squirming  over  the  floor,  the  Italian 
woman  would  always  insist  on  my  coming  in. 


264   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

Even  though  she  could  not  speak  a  word  of  American,  she 
would  throw  open  her  door  and  try,  bowing  and  waving,  to 
induce  me  to  enter.  Often  I  did  enter,  waiting  for  some  one, 
a  neighbor  or  a  child,  to  act  as  interpreter.  To  prevent 
tune  from  hanging  heavy  on  my  hands  she  would  show  me 
her  family  album,  birth,  marriage,  or  death  certificates,  or 
some  other  such  treasures. 

Unfortunately,  the  Italians  as  met  in  the  tenements  have 
too  many  mental  or  physical  defects.  I  cannot  recall  ever 
talking  with  an  Italian  woman  who  did  not  mention  some 
relative  in  some  philanthropic  institution.  Having  always 
been  poor,  they  struggle  out  of  poverty  as  they  can;  but 
when  they  do  not  succeed  they  accept  their  condition 
gracefully. 

To  the  Italian,  poverty  does  not  possess  a  sting.  I  believe 
it  stings  a  Jew — being  poor. 

During  the  congestion  in  the  tenements  I  got  my  best 
views  of  the  national  characteristics  of  the  various  peoples 
among  whom  I  worked.  Though  a  horribly  uncomfort- 
able period  for  the  tenement-dweller,  it  was  intensely  in- 
teresting to  me.  It  was  as  though  after  hearing  a  piece  of 
music  correctly  played  you  again  listened  to  it  with  both 
pedals  down. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
FORCING  THE  GOOSE  TO  LAY  MORE  DOLLARS 

"  TWELVE  persons  and  two  dogs  living  in  three  small 
rooms,  and  one  of  those  a  dark  kitchen.  How  packed  with 
sound — humanity  and  sound!"  That  is,  provided  greed 
be  an  inalienable  attribute  of  humanity. 

It  was  greed,  and  greed  alone,  that  forced  those  twelve 
persons  and  two  dogs  to  live  in  such  well-nigh  insupport- 
able conditions.  The  story  as  told  me  was  like  this: 

At  the  time  that  Congress  declared  that  a  state  of  war 
existed  between  this  country  and  Germany,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Arthur  Bruno,  both  American  born,  and  their  four  chil- 
dren, lived  in  the  flat  in  which  I  afterward  found  them.  At 
that  time  their  flat  consisted  of  a  dark  kitchen,  a  front  room 
with  two  windows  looking  on  Second  Avenue,  and  two 
twilight  bedrooms,  each  with  a  window  looking  on  a  by- 
courtesy  court  no  wider  than  a  well. 

One  of  these  twilight  bedrooms  was  occupied  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bruno,  the  other  by  their  grown  daughter  and 
her  schoolgirl  sister.  The  two  sons,  one  at  work  and  the 
other  at  school,  slept  on  a  couch-bed  in  the  front  room. 

"We  was  thinking  about  getting  a  flat  with  more  room," 
Mrs.  Bruno  explained  to  me.  "Both  my  boy  and  girl  was 
making  good  wages.  When  I  told  them  I'd  found  a  place, 
they  both  told  me  they  was  thinking  of  marryin'.  No  use 
movin'  and  havin'  an  extra  room  on  your  hands  when  your 
boy  and  girl  marry." 

Both  did  marry  and  both  young  husbands  enlisted.  As 
a  consequence  when  they  were  called  to  camp  both  young 
wives  came  to  live  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bruno.  In  tune 
both  young  wives  gave  birth  to  a  baby. 

All  went  well  until  the  owner  of  the  flat-house  deter- 

265 


266      FOUR  YEARS   IN  THE   UNDERBRUSH 

mined  to  get  higher  rents.  Five  dollars  a  month  was  the 
raise  charged  the  Bruno  family.  Though  the  old  man 
grumbled  he  paid  the  raise. 

Two  months  later  he  received  notice  of  a  ten-dollar-a- 
month  raise — the  cost  of  living  was  so  high,  the  owner  ex- 
plained, that  she  had  to  have  more  money.  A  few  months 
more  and  yet  another  raise.  This  notice  was  served  just 
after  the  birth  of  one  baby  and  before  the  birth  of  the 
other.  With  one  young  woman  just  home  from  the  hos- 
pital and  the  other  expecting  to  go  any  day,  the  family  was 
in  no  condition  to  move. 

With  Mr.  Bruno  the  only  worker  in  the  family,  for  the 
allotment  due  each  of  the  young  wives  had  not  been  paid, 
ten  dollars  more  rent  meant  starvation.  The  two  children, 
boy  and  girl,  were  taken  out  of  school  and  put  to  work. 
Their  wages  made  up  the  needed  ten  dollars  a  month  and 
gave  something  over  to  meet  the  rise  in  the  cost  of  all  the 
necessities  of  life. 

Shortly  after  the  birth  of  the  second  baby  the  tenement- 
owner  made  a  tour  of  inspection,  looked  over  her  property. 
As  described  by  the  occupants  of  her  tenement  she  was  a 
large,  " fleshy"  lady.  All  agreed  that  her  clothes,  furs, 
diamonds,  and  automobile  were  " grand."  As  an  additional 
evidence  of  her  grandeur,  besides  her  chauffeur  there  was 
seated  another  grown  man  in  uniform,  whose  only  duty,  so 
far  as  the  women  and  children  living  in  her  tenement  could 
understand,  was  to  hop  out  when  the  automobile  stopped 
and  hold  open  the  door. 

When  collecting  the  next  rent  the  agent  of  this  property- 
owner  informed  each  tenement  that  at  a  certain  time  the 
house  was  to  be  repaired  and  the  flats  made  over.  Six 
flats  were  to  be  made  on  each  floor  where  before  there  had 
been  four.  Each  flat  was  to  be  sharer  of  one  dark  room, 
so  that  the  new  flats  were  to  contain  two  rooms  each,  a 
kitchen  and  bedroom. 


FORCING  THE  GOOSE  267 

On  being  questioned  the  agent  declared  that  he  had  not 
been  told  anything  about  rent.  But  the  tenants,  convinced 
that  by  giving  up  a  room  they  would  lower  their  rent,  sub- 
mitted to  the  alterations. 

When  rent-day  came  the  same  amount  was  required  of 
them.  Those  who  objected  were  made  to  leave.  Mrs. 
Bruno,  before  expressing  her  indignation,  went  out  to  find 
a  flat  into  which  to  move  her  family.  She  told  me  that 
she  looked  for  two  weeks,  paid  car-fare,  and  almost  wore  a 
pair  of  good  shoes  out  without  finding  anything  better,  or 
so  good. 

"Father  got  an  offer  of  night-work — it  wasn't  easy  for 
him,  beginnin'  at  his  age — but  the  pay  was  better,  and  him 
sleepin'  days  give  us  more  room  nights,"  she  said.  Then 
with  a  shake  of  the  head  she  added:  "We  thought  rents  had 
gone  as  high  as  they  could  go,  seein'  that  folks  had  begun 
to  kick  about  'em.  Jesus !  Less  than  three  months  the 
agent  comes  round  again  and  serves  another  notice  of  a 
raise — we  had  to  pay  more'n  double  for  these  three  rooms 
what  we'd  paid  for  four  when  we  moved  in." 

A  few  days  after  this  raise  in  rent  Lucretia,  the  daughter, 
learned  that  her  husband  had  been  killed  somewhere  in 
France.  Work  being  plentiful  she  got  a  night  job — pay 
was  better  and  it  left  more  room  in  the  beds  at  night  for 
those  of  the  family  employed  during  the  day. 

The  cost  of  living  continuing  to  soar,  the  son's  wife  got 
a  job  to  supplement  the  government  allotment.  Because 
of  the  higher  pay  she  too  took  night-work.  Within  a  short 
time  she  was  back  in  the  hospital,  both  she  and  her  baby 
sick.  The  doctor  forbade  her  working  at  night.  Urged 
by  her  mother,  Lucretia  also  got  a  day  job. 

At  the  end  of  the  war  the  son  came  back,  and  Mrs. 
Bruno  once  more  started  out  to  look  for  a  flat,  a  home  for 
her  son  and  his  family.  Until  such  a  home  was  found  it 
was  deemed  wisest  for  the  son  to  go  with  his  father,  take 


268   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

night-work.  Just  when  the  old  woman  gave  up  her  search 
for  a  flat  as  a  useless  waste  of  time,  her  son's  "buddie" 
came  sailing  into  New  York  harbor  with  his  French  wife, 
soon  to  become  a  mother. 

With  true  Italian  hospitality  young  Bruno  not  only 
brought  his  "buddie"  and  his  French  wife  home,  but  in- 
cluded their  dog.  The  young  Frenchwoman  went  to 
Bellevue,  her  husband  found  work,  and  Mrs.  Bruno  set 
out  to  find  them  a  living  place,  anything  hi  the  way  of  a 
roof-tree  from  a  cellar  to  a  garret. 

When  I  last  called  on  the  Bruno  dog  the  hunt  for  a  flat, 
a  room,  a  cellar,  was  still  being  made.  While  Mrs.  Bruno 
was  doing  her  best  to  find  a  vacancy  she  told  me  that 
because  of  the  money  she  would  be  sorry  to  have  " buddie" 
and  his  little  family  go. 

"It's  the  rent,"  she  told  me.  "Everybody's  workin' 
exceptin'  me  and  Marie.  She  hasn't  been  out  the  hospital 
long,  and  there's  her  baby  to  feed.  All  gets  good  wages. 
Why,  my  youngest  girl  gets  twenty  a  week.  I'm  as  care- 
ful as  I  knows  how,  but  the  rent —  She's  chargin'  us  four 
times  as  much  for  these  three  rooms  as  we  used  to  pay  for 
four." 

Any  one  who  believes  that  tender-heartedness  means 
woman,  or  that  all  women  are  tender  of  heart  and  con- 
science, had  best  never  investigate  the  ownership  of  tene- 
ment-house property  hi  the  slums  of  New  York  City.  The 
filthiest,  most  dilapidated  tenement-houses  I  entered  were 
the  property  of  a  woman,  a  human  slug  who,  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  never  did  anything  more  than  dress  and 
eat. 

"I  don't  know  what  this  city's  coming  to,"  she  once  said 
to  me  as  she  waved  an  opened  letter.  "Here's  the  Health 
Department  ordering  me  to  put  toilets  in  my  houses.  Why, 
I  scarcely  get  enough  to  live  on  from  those  houses  as  it  is." 

"You  live  at  an  expensive  hotel  and  dress  rather  ex- 


FORCING  THE  GOOSE  269 

pensively,"  I  suggested.  "If,  when  you  go  off  this 
summer " 

"I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Why  should  I  sacri- 
fice myself  to  provide  a  lot  of  filthy  foreigners  with  lux- 
uries. Besides,  they  don't  want  them,"  she  asserted  posi- 
tively. "They've  never  been  accustomed  to  such  con- 
veniences; they'd  as  soon  go  in  the  yard." 

"Ever  ask  them?"  I  inquired.  She  was  old  enough  to 
be  my  grandmother,  so  I  didn't  wish  to  hurt  her  feelings, 
though  I  did  long  to  get  her  to  look  at  the  matter  from  the 
tenant's  point  of  view.  "How  long  since  you've  gone 
through  those  houses,  seen  the  condition  with  your  own 
eyes?  How  long?" 

"Not  since  mother's  death.  We  used  to  live  in  the  front 
house,  you  know.  East  Third  Street  was  fashionable  then." 
She  gave  a  list  of  neighbors  and  friends  who  had  owned 
homes  within  a  few  blocks  of  her  property,  most  of  them 
names  prominent  in  the  history  of  the  city.  "Mother  and 
I  used  to  live  on  those  houses,  had  money  to  do  as  we 
pleased.  Now  they  order  me  to  put  in  toilets.  I'll  do  no 
such  thing — unless  they  force  me  to." 

She  was  forced  to.  After  getting  estimates  from  several 
contractors  she  finally  got  a  bid  which  she  considered 
"reasonable."  Acting  against  the  advice  of  her  renting- 
agent,  she  accepted  this  bid.  The  man  did  the  work,  she 
paid  his  bill,  and  a  few  weeks  later  was  notified  that  all  the 
toilets  had  dropped  through  the  floor.  One  of  them  in 
falling  struck  one  of  the  tenants,  who  threatened  a  suit  for 
damages. 

That  is  the  first  cause  of  the  slums  of  New  York  City — 
property-owners  like  that  woman. 

In  my  district  as  inspector  of  dog  licenses  I  met  with  one 
tenement-owner  who  did  not  increase  his  rent  during  the 
housing  crisis  in  New  York.  He  owned  ten  or  more  houses 
of  six  or  ten  flats  each  in  the  lower  part  of  my  district,  and 


270   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

between  First  Avenue  and  the  river.  They  were  so  much 
better  kept  than  the  property  surrounding  them  that  the 
instant  I  put  my  foot  in  the  door  I  recognized  them  as 
belonging  to  this  man. 

The  last  time  I  called  on  the  dogs  in  those  houses  I  was 
assured  by  the  janitor  and  the  tenants  that  they  had  not 
had  a  raise  in  rent  for  more  than  ten  years.  In  several  of 
this  man's  houses  tenants  and  janitors  told  me  there  hadn't 
been  a  change  in  more  than  twenty  years.  One  janitor 
who  had  cared  for  one  of  his  houses  for  thirty  years  said 
she  hadn't  had  as  many  as  a  dozen  new  tenants  in  all  that 
time. 

Though  I  tried  several  times  to  see  this  house-owner  for 
the  sake  of  asking  him  how  he  managed  to  make  money 
when  every  other  real-estate  owner  was  piling  on  rent,  I 
never  got  any  nearer  him  than  his  sister,  who  lives  with 
him.  This  woman  assured  me  that  her  brother  did  make 
his  tenement  property  pay,  pay  well. 

Her  brother  had  found,  she  told  me,  that  keeping  his 
houses  in  good  repair,  and  under  the  care  of  a  courteous, 
clean  janitor,  insured  his  keeping  respectable  tenants.  By 
respectable,  she  explained,  her  brother  meant  persons  who 
held  down  their  jobs,  paid  their  rent  promptly,  and  did  not 
make  a  business  of  destroying  the  property.  He  took  in 
any  nationality  so  long  as  they  were  the  right  sort  of  per- 
sons. 

The  enormous  increase  of  crime,  the  so-called  "crime 
wave,"  was  brought  about  by  congestion  in  the  tenement 
districts  more  than  by  any  other  one  cause.  Children  and 
young  people,  being  forced  out  of  their  homes  by  over- 
crowding, spent  their  evenings  on  the  streets,  or  in  any 
public  place  open  to  an  empty  pocketbook. 

It  was  impossible  for  parents  to  keep  track  of  their  chil- 
dren, boys  or  girls,  once  the  child  got  large  enough  to  go 
around  alone.  Often  this  was  a  relief  to  the  mother  of  the 


FORCING  THE   GOOSE  271 

family,  especially  when  her  brood  did  not  get  on  harmoni- 
ously. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  'em  go,"  one  tenement  mother  confided 
to  me.  "Yet  I  can't  tell  youse  how  anxious  I  am  until  I 
gits  'em  back.  There  ain't  no  room  for  'em  here,  scrappin' 
and  all  but  fightin'  like  they  does;  but  once  they're  out  of 
my  sight  I  dunno  who'll  git  'old  of  'em,  or  where  they'll 

go." 

In  the  upper  part  of  my  district  I  crossed  the  trail  of  at 
least  a  dozen  different  bands  of  juvenile  thieves.  One  band 
when  it  first  came  to  my  notice  was  made  up  of  two  girls, 
neither  of  them  fourteen  years  old,  and  both  daughters  of 
respectable,  hard-working  parents. 

These  two  children  began  by  playing  hooky  from  school, 
climbing  fire-escapes,  and  taking  small  articles  from  flats 
where  the  windows  had  been  carelessly  left  unfastened. 
Growing  bolder,  they  would  strip  a  flat  and  lug  the  contents, 
bedding,  clothing,  and  small  articles,  across  the  roofs  to 
a  different  street,  thence  to  a  corner  in  a  cellar  which  they 
had  found  temporarily  unused. 

Both  of  these  children  were  noticeably  good-looking, 
and  the  day  I  met  them  carefully  and  comfortably  dressed. 
It  was  hi  a  tenement-house  in  which  the  janitor  lived  on 
the  top  floor.  Being  a  bit  out  of  breath  after  climbing 
five  flights  of  steep  stairs,  I  halted  in  the  passageway  be- 
fore knocking  at  the  door  of  the  janitor's  flat. 

As  I  stood  there  the  door  leading  to  the  roof  opened, 
and  two  girls  entered,  each  with  a  bundle  wrapped  in  a 
sheet.  The  house  was  profoundly  quiet,  and  they  were 
more  than  half-way  down  the  stairs  before  they  saw  me. 

"Our  mother  sent  us  to  carry  home  this  wash,"  one  of 
them  said  to  me,  and  she  indicated  the  bundles. 

"What  were  you  doing  on  the  roof?"  I  asked,  more  puz- 
zled by  her  explanation  than  I  had  been  by  their  appearance. 

"We  live  on  the  top  floor,"  she  replied,  and  without  the 


272   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

slightest  hesitation.  "It's  easier  than  going  down  so 
many  stairs." 

"H'm!"  the  older  girl  sniffed.  "Who  likes  to  carry 
bundles  like  these  through  the  street?  Folks  laugh  at  us." 

Stepping  aside  I  let  them  pass.  Then  as  I  watched  them 
make  that  flight  I  called  down  to  them: 

"Tell  your  mother  next  tune  not  to  make  your  bundles 
so  heavy.  Let  you  make  two  turns.  Neither  of  you  are 
strong  enough  for  that  load." 

The  janitor  proved  to  be  an  old  acquaintance — this  being 
my  third  or  fourth  call  on  the  dogs  hi  her  house.  She  was 
a  gossipy  Italian  woman,  and  since  she  last  saw  me  many 
things  of  importance  to  her  had  happened.  She  insisted 
on  my  coming  in  and  sitting  down. 

After  inspecting  her  new  baby  and  admiring  the  pho- 
tograph of  her  brother  hi  an  Italian  uniform,  among  other 
subjects  I  chanced  to  mention  was  the  hope  that  she  would 
not  allow  her  little  girls  to  tote  huge  bundles  of  wash  across 
roofs.  I  then  told  of  the  two  children  who  had  passed  me 
in  the  hall. 

"Jesus!"  she  exclaimed  excitedly.  "They  break  in 
Angelina's  flat  last  week  and  stole  all  her  fine  clothes. 
Day  before  they  break  hi  a  flat  on  the  avenue  and  steal  a 
man's  watch." 

The  story  in  a  nutshell  was  that  the  two  children  had, 
within  six  days,  entered  and  robbed  two  flats.  When  I 
saw  them  they  were  evidently  escaping  with  plunder  from 
a  third. 

"I  tell  my  man,"  the  janitor  added,  after  giving  me  the 
details  of  the  two  robberies,  "he  must  get  my  dog  license. 
My  dog  more  use  than  the  police.  What  the  police  do  for 
me? — way  down  on  the  street — my  dog  he  stay  here. 
When  I  go  I  tell  him:  'You  stay.'  Nobody  come  in  when 
my  dog's  here." 

Later  I  heard  of  these  two  girl  robbers  at  least  a  dozen 
times.  According  to  later  reports  they  had  annexed,  or 


FORCING  THE  GOOSE  273 

been  annexed  by,  two  young  men.  One  report  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  parents  of  one  of  them  had  taken  the  matter 
up  with  the  police  in  the  hope  of  finding  their  child  and  in- 
ducing her  to  return  home. 

In  some  of  the  best  built  and  cared  for  tenement-houses 
in  that  section  of  my  district,  there  was  not  a  door  that  had 
not  been  jimmied.  Janitor  and  tenants  agreed  that  most 
of  this  was  done  by  boys,  scarcely  more  than  children. 
They  also  agreed  that  a  dog  was  the  best  and  only  protec- 
tion against  these  thieves. 

Crossing  the  back  yard  on  my  way  to  a  rear  tenement  in 
the  lower  gas-house  district,  I  once  noticed  a  lot  of  writing 
on  a  fence.  It  was  in  chalk,  and  had  the  appearance  of 
being  freshly  done. 

"Mary  will  go  too"  and  "Seen  you  was"  were  two  sen- 
tences that  attracted  my  attention. 

While  waiting  for  my  knock  at  the  door  of  the  rear  tene- 
ment to  be  answered,  I  saw  a  young  man,  a  lad,  saunter 
into  the  yard,  read  the  writing,  and  then  hurry  out.  As  I 
was  leaving,  having  seen  the  dog's  license,  another  boy 
sauntered  in,  read  the  writing,  and  hurried  out. 

The  dog-owner,  on  catching  sight  of  the  second  boy  as 
he  entered,  drew  back  and  out  of  his  sight.  When  I  asked 
for  an  explanation,  she  assured  me  that  the  writing  was 
the  work  of  a  gang  of  young  crooks.  She  said  everybody 
in  the  two  houses  knew  about  their  writing  signals  on  that 
fence,  but  dare  not  interfere.  When  I  proposed  to  rub  off 
the  writing,  she  became  alarmed  and  implored  me  not  to 
touch  it,  not  to  walk  on  that  side  of  the  yard,  or  show  that 
I  saw  it. 

Not  being  a  very  gullible  woman,  I  set  about  questioning 
janitors  and  dog-owners  in  that  vicinity.  According  to 
these  persons  that  gang  was  only  one  of  many  infesting  that 
section.  Several  of  them  told  me  that  she  was  hi  hourly 
dread  of  learning  that  her  own  son  or  daughter  was  a  mem- 
ber of  such  a  gang,  and  a  criminal.  Always  the  wail  was: 


274   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"I  can't  keep  track  of  'em.  We  had  to  take  a  boarder 
in  to  help  us  pay  rent.  Evenin's  there  ain't  room  here  for 
us  all  to  set  down,  much  less  have  company.  Young  folks 
must  have  company." 

The  persons  responsible  for  these  conditions,  the  tene- 
ment-owners, were  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  well- 
to-do  if  not  hugely  rich.  Their  claim  that  it  was  the  high 
cost  of  labor  and  materials  that  forced  them  to  raise  rents, 
in  my  district  at  least,  was  a  he. 

During  the  last  nine  months  of  my  service  as  inspector 
of  dog  licenses  I  made  a  point  of  asking  in  every  tenement- 
house  I  entered,  what  repairs  had  been  made  during  the 
past  six  months.  According  to  my  diary  I  found  ninety- 
two  houses  where  painting  or  repairs  had  been  made  at 
the  expense  of  the  landlord — ninety-two  in  the  thousands, 
and  tens  of  thousands,  of  tenement-houses  in  my  district. 

The  vast  majority  of  them  not  only  made  no  repairs  of 
any  sort,  but  they  cut  down  expenses.  One  nice  little  trick 
was  to  discharge  a  janitor  to  whom  they  had  been  paying 
a  few  dollars  above  the  rent  of  her  cellar  or  basement  flat. 
After  forcing  her  out  or  making  her  pay  rent  for  her  quar- 
ters, the  agent  would  pick  out  a  tenant,  usually  one  with  a 
small  family,  and  notify  the  woman  that  she  was  to  do  the 
janitor's  work,  scrubbing,  sweeping,  and  keeping  track  of 
tenants,  and  her  husband  must  do  the  repairs.  For  this 
they  would  be  allowed  five  or  six  dollars  a  month  on  their 
rent. 

It  was  either  do  it  or  get  out  of  the  house.  As  there  were 
no  flats  to  .be  had,  the  man  and  wife  had  to  do  as  they 
were  bid. 

In  one  case  of  this  sort  the  price  offered  was  six  dollars 
a  month  taken  off  the  rent,  and  the  husband,  a  plumber, 
was  not  only  to  do  all  repairs  in  the  house,  but  was  to 
furnish  his  own  material. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS 

BECAUSE  I  found  social  service  work  unsuited  to  my 
talent  does  not  mean  that  I  think  such  work  unnecessary, 
or  that  I  in  any  way  disapprove  of  it.  Quite  the  con- 
trary. While  I  deeply  deplore  the  condition  that  makes 
such  work  necessary,  the  condition  exists,  and  should  be 
met  so  long  as  it  does  exist. 

Social  service  workers  are  as  necessary  in  the  slums  of 
New  York  City  as  doctors  and  nurses  in  a  pest-house.  As 
I  saw  conditions,  the  social  service  worker  should  always 
be  a  graduate  nurse,  a  mature  woman  of  wide  experience. 
Often  she  has  the  duties  and  obligations  of  a  physician 
thrust  on  her.  Now,  I  make  the  above  statement  because 
of  my  experience. 

Had  I  been  a  graduate  nurse  I  would  have  been  very 
much  more  valuable  as  a  social  service  worker — though 
perhaps  not  so  keen  an  observer  of  conditions.  The  effi- 
cient social  service  worker  has  to  accept  certain  conditions 
as  well-nigh  unalterable.  She  is  a  human  being — there  is 
a  limit  to  her  strength,  her  power  of  endurance,  her  tune, 
and  also  to  the  amount  of  money  she  has  to  spend. 

She  must  devote  her  mind  as  well  as  her  tune  to  the  case 
in  hand.  She  cannot  be  running  off  at  a  tangent,  untangling 
the  affairs  of  an  entire  tenement-house  when  her  call  is  on 
one  family — up  in  Harlem  or  under  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
there  are  always  other  sufferers  awaiting  her  attention. 

As  an  instance,  take  the  rear  tenement  on  East  Twenty- 
seventh  Street,  where  I  found  the  floor  of  the  street-level 
flat  rotted  away,  and  a  pool  of  slimy,  filthy  water.  The 
back  hall,  the  floor  of  which  still  remained,  or  at  least  was 

275 


276   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

not  entirely  rotted  away,  had  been  used  as  a  toilet — pos- 
sibly by  persons  passing  along  the  streets. 

Entering  that  tenement,  while  looking  for  the  janitor,  I 
found  a  baby,  less  than  two  years  old,  playing  in  that 
filth.  Of  course  it  had  smeared  it  over  itself.  It  was 
horrible.  Unspeakable ! 

A  social  service  worker  could  have  taken  that  baby  to 
its  mother  and  given  her  a  lecture  on  hygiene.  I  did  not 
stop  at  that — while  standing  by  her  to  see  that  she  gave 
the  baby  a  proper  scrubbing  and  clean  clothes,  I  not  only 
got  the  history  of  her  and  her  family,  but  I  held  over  her 
head  the  threat  of  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Children.  Once  the  baby  was  decently  clean,  I  put  the 
mother  on  probation  under  the  surveillance  of  the  only 
dog-owner  in  the  house — there  was  no  janitor. 

At  noon  I  spent  practically  the  whole  of  my  lunch-hour 
telephoning  the  Tenement  House  Department  and  the 
owner  of  the  house.  To  both  I  described  myself  as  a 
writer,  and  told  them  that  unless  they  wished  to  see  a 
photograph  of  that  street-level  flat,  with  a  description  of 
that  baby  as  I  had  found  it,  in  the  Sunday  papers,  that  floor 
must  be  fixed  and  the  house  cleaned  up  at  once. 

As  for  that  mother — I  kept  my  hold  on  her  for  more 
than  a  year.  Looking  back  over  my  records  I  find  that  I 
had,  first  and  last,  eighteen  mothers  in  my  district  on  such 
a  probation.  One  was  an  Irishwoman  living  in  a  filthy 
tenement  across  from  the  morgue.  She  knocked  a  child 
down  in  my  presence — a  little  emaciated  boy  of  not  more 
than  six  years. 

When  I  remonstrated  with  her  she  told  me  that  it  was 
her  child,  and  she  would  treat  it  as  she  chose.  When  I 
started  for  a  policeman  she  changed  her  mind — began  to 
slobber  and  shed  crocodile  tears  while  protesting  her  love 
for  the  child.  As  long  as  I  was  working  within  walking 
distance,  I  used  to  go  once  a  week  to  see  that  she  lived  up 


WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS  277 

to  her  agreement.  At  first  I  used  to  make  her  strip  the 
boy  to  make  sure  there  were  no  bruises  on  his  body.  Later 
I  called  once  a  month — never  at  the  same  hour  nor  on  the 
same  day  of  the  week. 

One  odd  characteristic  about  those  women,  they  always 
grew  to  like  me.  Among  my  best  friends  hi  the  tene- 
ments I  number  several  women  whom  I,  at  one  time  or 
another  during  my  four  years  in  the  underbrush,  threatened 
to  report  to  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Children.  That  society,  like  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.,  is  known 
to  every  dweller  in  the  slums  of  the  Greater  City. 

There  were  occasions  when  I  did  not  stop  at  a  threat. 
I  went  to  the  nearest  telephone  and,  calling  up  the  society, 
reported  the  case.  In  every  instance  my  appeal  was  at- 
tended to  immediately,  and  handled  to  my  satisfaction. 
The  first  time  I  had  occasion  to  call  on  this  organization 
was  in  behalf  of  four  young  girls,  sisters. 

They  were  as  beautiful  children  as  I  have  ever  seen  in 
the  same  family.  It  was  because  I  remarked  their  surpris- 
ing good  looks  that  the  janitor  of  the  house  hi  which  they 
lived,  and  in  whose  rooms  I  found  them,  begged  my  pro- 
tection for  them. 

She,  that  janitor,  was  tubercular,  and  ready,  dressed,  and 
waiting  for  the  ambulance  to  come  and  take  her  to  Belle- 
vue.  Looking  for  dogs  I  called  at  her  flat.  On  learning 
her  condition  I  expressed  my  sympathy,  then  added: 

"Yet  how  fortunate  you  are  to  have  four  such  lovely 
daughters." 

"I  would  to  God  they  were  mine,"  she  replied,  and  both 
her  voice  and  the  expression  with  which  she  looked  at  the 
children  attested  her  sincerity.  "Mary,  take  the  children 
into  the  kitchen.  I  wanter  speak  to  the  lady." 

Mary  took  the  children  into  the  kitchen,  and  the  janitor 
told  me  their  story. 

Their  father  was  a  Swede  and  their  mother  an  Irish- 


278      FOUR  YEARS  IN   THE  UNDERBRUSH 

woman.  About  a  year  before  I  met  with  the  children  their 
father,  a  skilled  machinist,  had  been  killed  in  the  shop 
where  he  worked.  Because  of  this  accident  his  wife  re- 
ceived seventy-five  dollars  a  month. 

According  to  the  janitor's  story,  which  was  verified  by 
three  tenants  in  the  house,  every  month  as  soon  as  this 
woman  received  her  check  she  went  on  a  drunk.  Not 
satisfied  with  drinking,  she  would  bring  strange  men  to  her 
flat — men  as  drunk  and  degraded  as  herself.  On  such 
occasions  the  children  had  taken  refuge  with  the  janitor. 

The  night  before  my  visit  this  woman  had  returned, 
after  an  absence  of  several  days,  with  two  men.  Finding 
her  eldest  daughter,  under  thirteen  years  of  age,  in  their 
flat,  she  refused  to  allow  her  to  leave,  ordered  her  to  spend 
the  night  with  one  of  the  drunken  men.  The  child  had 
escaped  from  the  room  in  which  her  mother  had  locked  her 
with  the  drunken  man  by  the  fire-escape. 

"I'd  die  happy  if  I  only  knew  somebody  would  look  after 
those  little  girls,  see  that  they  come  to  no  harm,"  the 
janitor  added,  after  telling  me  their  story. 

This  was  during  my  first  summer  working  in  the  tene- 
ments. How  hot  the  sun  was  that  day!  The  cars  on 
Twenty-third  Street  were  not  running,  because  of  a  block- 
ade. I  did  not  know  that  there  were  such  long  blocks  in 
New  York  as  those  between  First  and  Fourth  Avenues 
seemed  that  day. 

The  ambulance  from  Belle vue  might  come  for  that  jan- 
itor at  any  minute.  With  her  gone  those  little  girls  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  their  drunken  mother  and  her  beastly 
companions.  Those  three  blocks  seemed  miles  long.  And 
the  sun !  I  was  dripping  with  perspiration  when  I  entered 
the  offices  of  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children. 

It  was  Saturday  and  they  were  short-handed,  the  man  in 
charge  explained,  both  of  which  facts  I  knew  to  be  true. 
If  it  could  go  over  until  Monday  or  later  in  the  day.  Plant- 


WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS  279 

ing  myself  in  front  of  his  desk,  I  stuck  to  my  point.  It  was 
an  urgent  case,  it  must  be  attended  to  at  once. 

He  promised  to  do  the  best  he  could,  and  I  left  him  try- 
ing to  locate  his  workers,  to  send  them  to  the  address. 
Back  at  the  tenement,  the  cars  were  still  standing  motion- 
less in  the  middle  of  Twenty-third  Street — I  found  that 
the  ambulance  had  not  arrived.  That  gave  me  an  idea— 
I  would  appeal  to  Miss  Wadley. 

It  was  not  a  case  for  a  hospital  social  service,  I  knew  that. 
But  I  realized  that  as  a  big  stick  the  social  service  depart- 
ment of  Bellevue  had  considerable  weight.  Though  I  did 
not  know  that  it  would  be  needed  to  make  the  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children  function  promptly, 
I  was  determined  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  I  was  not  taking 
chances  with  those  girls  and  their  drunken  mother. 

For  a  wonder  Miss  Wadley  was  out.  The  worker  in 
charge  of  the  office,  the  only  one  who  had  not  finished  her 
work  for  that  day,  consented  to  do  all  in  her  power.  We 
had  never  seen  each  other  before,  but  she  took  my  word  for 
it,  and  telephoned  urging  the  children's  society  to  prompt 
action. 

At  one  o'clock  the  wagon  of  the  society  stopped  before 
the  tenement,  and  two  agents  went  in.  There  was  no 
need  for  me  to  follow  them.  The  ambulance  from  Bellevue 
had  not  come,  so  the  janitor  was  there  to  report  condi- 
tions. 

One  of  the  hideous  features  of  that  case  was  that  the 
mother,  that  woman  who  had  become  no  better  than  a 
beast,  belonged  to  a  respectable  family — all  of  them,  ex- 
cepting her,  persons  of  refinement  and  education. 

Another  case  that  I  reported  to  the  children's  society  was 
that  of  a  man  who  was  breeding  dogs  in  the  presence  of 
children.  As  soon  as  I  struck  the  block  I  was  told  about 
the  man,  a  Polack,  who  was  " shaming"  the  neighborhood. 
When  I  said  I  would  investigate  the  matter  several  women 


280   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

begged  me  not  to  go  near  this  man,  or  the  houses  of  which 
he  was  the  janitor. 

I  went  and  I  met  a  dog  whose  eyes  were  on  a  level  with 
my  own.  It  was  with  this  huge  animal  that  he  had  terror- 
ized the  women  and  children  on  the  block.  When  he 
called  the  dog  out  he  expected  to  see  me  beat  a  hasty  re- 
treat. 

He  did  not  know  what  I  had  learned  about  myself,  or 
rather  about  my  clothes — they  had  become  so  permeated 
with  the  scent  of  dogs  that  the  animals  always  sniffed  me 
over  and  then  proceeded  to  treat  me  as  a  long-lost  friend. 
This  tall  black-and-white  giant  of  a  dog  rubbed  his  muzzle 
against  my  shoulder,  then  taking  his  seat  at  my  side,  snug- 
gled his  head  under  my  hand. 

The  man  was  impressed,  but  not  sufficiently  to  cause  him 
to  change  his  mind.  He  had  declared  when  I  first  entered 
his  flat  that  he  would  not  get  a  license  for  either  of  his  three 
dogs,  and  he  dared  me  or  anybody  in  New  York  to  try  to 
make  him.  He  was  just  one  of  the  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  blustering  immigrants  of  low  mentality  that 
come  into  our  country  every  day.  He  was  a  huge  brute 
himself  and  imagined  he  could  cow  everybody  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact. 

On  finding  the  nearest  telephone  I  reported  him  to  the 
children's  society  for  indecency  in  the  presence  of  children. 
Then  I  reported  the  filthy  condition  of  his  flat  to  the  Health 
Department,  and  on  meeting  a  policeman  farther  along  the 
block  I  told  him  of  the  whole  performance.  Having  been 
a  member  of  the  Woman's  Police  Reserve  about  a  year,  I 
had  learned  when  to  appeal  to  a  brother  cop. 

The  next  morning  as  I  passed  along  that  block  it  seemed 
to  me  that  everybody  in  sight  wore  a  broad  grin.  Their 
enemy  had  been  routed.  The  Health  Department  made 
him  clean  his  flat,  an  agent  of  the  children's  society  paid 
a  visit,  and  the  officer  on  that  beat  had  threatened  to 


WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS  281 

take  him  to  court  if  ever  he  caught  his  dogs  on  the  street 
without  a  license  tag  and  a  muzzle. 

The  second  largest  dog  in  my  district  lived  in  a  wine- 
cellar  on  East  Twenty-ninth  Street.  A  pencil  scrawl  came 
to  me  complaining  that  a  dog  at  that  address  had  no  license. 
The  writer  of  the  scrawl  demanded  to  know  why  an  honest 
man  like  himself  had  to  pay  for  a  license  while  the  crooks 
in  the  cellar  did  not.  Needless  to  say  the  honest  man  forgot 
to  sign  his  name. 

It  was  late  hi  the  afternoon  when  I  set  out  to  investigate 
the  wine-cellar.  I  had  deciphered  the  name  and  number 
and  was  starting  down  the  steps  when,  almost  as  if  by 
magic,  the  pavement  swarmed  with  gesticulating  women 
and  children. 

An  unusual  feature  of  this  writhing  crowd  was  that  no 
one  made  a  sound.  Not  one  word  did  they  speak.  But 
they  made  it  plain  that  I  was  not  to  go  down  to  that  cellar. 

"Why  not?"  I  halted  on  the  second  step  and  demanded 
of  a  woman  near  me.  "Why  not?" 

"Sicilians,"  she  whispered,  indicating  the  cellar.  "Black 
Hand."  And  laying  hold  of  my  sleeve  she  tried  to  pull  me 
back. 

"I  don't  care  a  whoop,"  I  told  her.  "I'm  an  American." 
And  down  the  steps  I  went  and  into  the  wine-shop. 

Having  entered  every  saloon  in  my  district  I  literally  did 
not  care  a  whoop  about  a  place  in  which  only  wine  was 
sold.  It  proved  to  be  larger  than  I  had  expected — wide, 
deep,  and  so  dark  that  the  faces  of  the  men  seated  at  the 
farthest  tables  made  me  think  of  the  flame  of  a  lamp  when 
seen  through  a  chimney  black  with  smoke. 

So  far  as  I  could  make  out  in  one  quick  glance  around 
there  were  a  number  of  small,  round  tables  at  each  of  which 
were  seated  several  men.  All  of  these  men  appeared  to  be 
drinking,  and  many  of  them  playing  some  game. 

"Is  there  anybody  here  who  can  speak  American?"  I 


282   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

demanded,  as  I  came  to  a  halt  about  two  feet  within  the 
door. 

Pandemonium !  My  entrance  had  not  been  noticed. 
At  the  sound  of  my  voice  it  seemed  to  me  that  every  man 
in  the  cellar  sprang  to  his  feet.  Several  chairs  were  over- 
turned, and  at  least  one  table.  In  that  moment  I  under- 
stood why  Italians  are  called  guineas.  Those  men  sounded 
for  all  the  world  like  a  flock  of  guinea-hens  when  threatened 
by  a  hawk. 

They  swarmed  about  me  gesticulating  and  potter-racking. 
It  was  so  much  like  a  scene  in  an  Italian  opera  that  I  forgot 
to  be  afraid  and  became  cross  with  them  for  appearing 
so  stagy. 

"Now,  don't  try  to  start  any  monkey  black-hand  busi- 
ness," I  warned  them  crossly.  "This  is  New  York,  and 
I'm  in  a  hurry.  Your  dog's  been  complained  about,  and 
I've  got  to  see  its  license." 

"Oh,  dog!"  a  voice  at  my  elbow  exclaimed,  and  there 
stepped  from  behind  a  curtain  that  I  had  not  noticed  a 
person  whom  I  still  believe  to  be  the  handsomest  woman  I 
have  ever  laid  eyes  on. 

In  that  underground  half-light  she  was  superb.  Nearly 
if  not  fully  six  feet  tall,  her  figure  reminded  me  of  a  per- 
fectly proportioned  pine  sapling — as  graceful  and  as  natural. 
Her  dress  was  of  some  black-gray  filmy  stuff  that,  falling 
in  soft  straight  folds,  accentuated  her  height  and  blended 
with  the  duskiness  surrounding  her.  Her  face  was  a  long 
oval,  her  slumbrous  eyes  were  as  soft  as  black  velvet,  her 
nose  slightly  Roman,  and  her  lips  a  delicately  chiselled 
cupid's  bow. 

She  ordered  the  men  to  stand  back,  and  with  a  wave  of 
her  hand  signalled  to  them  to  right  the  overturned  table 
and  chairs.  Then  drawing  aside  the  dark  curtain  from 
behind  which  she  had  made  her  sudden  appearance,  she 
called  the  dog.  It  came  bounding  out,  a  great  black  beast, 
its  head  almost  on  a  level  with  my  shoulders. 


WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS  283 

It  was  then  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  I  possessed 
an  unusual  attraction  for  dogs.  This  ferocious-looking 
animal,  in  spite  of  the  orders  of  its  mistress,  insisted  on 
sniffing  me  over.  This  ceremony  finished,  to  the  surprise 
of  the  woman  and  the  men  looking  on,  the  dog  rubbed 
against  me  and  tried  to  lick  my  hand. 

When  I  took  my  seat  at  a  near-by  table — the  woman 
urged  me  to  have  a  glass  of  wine  with  her — the  dog  stretched 
itself  out  beside  me  and  rested  its  head  on  my  knees. 

"You  must  be  good  to  dogs,"  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  New  York  City  told  me,  speaking  with  a  soft  lisping 
accent,  after  she  had  tried  in  vain  to  coax  the  dog  to  re- 
turn to  its  bed  behind  the  curtain.  "I  never  saw  Dante 
do  like  that  with  a  stranger." 

"Named  for  your  great  poet?"  I  questioned,  for  the  sake 
of  leading  her  thoughts  into  other  channels.  Though  I 
had  not  at  that  time  the  remotest  idea  of  what  ailed  the 
dog,  I  saw  that  its  show  of  confidence  pleased  her  and 
awed  the  men.  I  had  no  intention  of  acknowledging  my 
ignorance. 

"You  read  his  poems!"  she  exclaimed,  bending  eagerly 
across  the  little  table.  What  wonderful  eyes  she  had ! 
and  teeth  like  evenly  matched  pearls. 

Had  I  been  a  social  service  worker  I  could  not  have 
spent  so  much  tune  sipping  indifferent  red  wine  and  chat- 
tering about  Italian  poetry  even  with  the  most  beautiful 
woman  I  ever  saw.  With  Mr.  Horton  it  was  all  right — I 
induced  the  woman  to  license  her  dog.  It  would  take  a 
brave,  thrice  brave  social  worker  to  report  such  an  inci- 
dent to  her  committee. 

All  social  workers,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  learn,  are  guided 
by  a  committee — the  power  behind  the  throne,  or  perhaps 
I  might  say  the  ball  and  chain  attached  to  the  foot  of  every 
social  worker. 

Of  course  no  committee  intentionally  renders  null  and 


284   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

void  about  fifty  per  cent  of  a  worker's  accomplishment. 
Neither  do  I  imagine  that  a  ball  and  chain  intentionally 
trips  up  a  convict  at  every  other  step.  A  ball  and  chain 
is  insensate  metal,  it  cannot  learn.  The  members  of  the 
average  committee  supervising  philanthropic  work  in  New 
York  City  differ  from  a  ball  and  chain  in  that  they  will 
not  learn. 

They  know  nothing  about  "those  people,"  yet  they  never 
hesitate  to  advise  the  worker  how  to  treat  them,  how  much 
money  to  spend  for  them,  and  where.  In  no  case  must 
the  spending  of  so  much  as  a  nickel  be  intrusted  to  "those 
people."  That  is  one  of  the  chief  duties  of  a  social  worker, 
laying  out  the  amount  allowed  by  her  committee  on  each 
specified  case. 

On  one  case  I  was  allowed  twenty-five  dollars.  After 
buying  comfortables  and  several  pieces  of  second-hand 
furniture  there  were  a  few  dollars  left  over,  less  than  five. 
I  consulted  with  an  experienced  worker — might  I  not  hand 
the  amount  to  the  mother  of  the  family  ? 

"My  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  her  tone  and  manner  as 
though  I  had  suggested  setting  fire  to  the  hospital.  "You 
mustn't  think  of  it.  The  committee  would  not  like  it. 
Think  how  good  they  were  to  give  you  twenty-five  dollars 
for  one  family." 

Not  to  give  money  is,  I  admit,  an  excellent  general  rule. 
But  how  about  the  worker's  judgment  and  knowledge  of 
conditions  ?  In  this  instance  the  family  were  gentle  people 
of  good  character.  Besides  the  expense  of  maintaining 
eight  children  under  fourteen,  the  father  had  paid  for  two 
long  and  expensive  attacks  on  his  wife — she  had  had  both 
breasts  removed  because  of  cancer.  Almost  immediately 
after  her  second  operation  the  family  was  stricken  with 
influenza. 

For  the  sake  of  spending  those  last  few  dollars  judiciously 
I  had  to  follow  that  educated,  refined,  and  half-sick  woman 


WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS  285 

around  a  shop — after  she  selected  articles,  cheap  bits  of 
crockery,  knives  and  forks,  I  paid  for  them.  There  never 
was  a  sheep-killing  dog  that  felt  sneakier  than  I  did  when 
we  left  that  store. 

This  is  only  one  of  many,  many  such  instances  that  come 
to  every  social  worker.  What  would  have  happened  to 
my  group  of  workers  had  we  followed  the  advice  of  the 
committee  woman  who  wanted  every  man  out  of  a  job,  or 
who  was  working  for  low  wages,  sent  to  Hog  Island,  it  is 
difficult  to  imagine. 

At  every  meeting  of  that  committee  it  was:  "Why  don't 
you  send  him  to  Hog  Island?"  "Isn't  that  a  case  for  Hog 
Island?"  or  "He  should  go  to  Hog  Island.  I'm  reliably  in- 
formed that  they  are  offering  a  dollar  an  hour  and  can't 
get  enough  men."  I  heard  so  much  about  Hog  Island  that 
I  used  to  be  afraid  I'd  get  to  grunting. 

The  majority,  if  not  all,  of  the  men  that  particular  com- 
mittee member  wished  shipped  to  Hog  Island  were  the 
fathers  of  large  families;  several  the  only  surviving  parent. 
Everybody  who  knows  anything  about  social  work  in  New 
York  City  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  that  keeping  a  tene- 
ment father  of  a  numerous  family  on  his  job  is  one  of  the 
chief est  problems  of  all  philanthropic  workers.  He  is  only 
too  willing  to  drop  out  of  sight,  get  a  young  wife,  and  leave 
his  old  wife  and  her  dozen  or  so  children  for  the  city  to 
support.  Ten  to  one  such  fathers  are  of  the  desirable  citi- 
zens who  come  to  us  via  Ellis  Island. 

What  committee  members  refuse  to  learn  is  that  "those 
people"  are  human  beings,  with  hearts  and  sensibilities. 
They  can  love,  and  they  can  also  hate,  "even  as  you  and  I." 

Now  to  compare  a  sympathetic  gentlewoman,  the  bearer 
of  a  respectable  name  and  the  mistress  of  hundreds  of 
thousands,  perhaps  millions,  of  dollars,  to  a  thief,  the  robber 
of  a  poor-box,  may  seem  an  exaggeration.  If  so,  it  is  in 
favor  of  the  robber  of  the  poor-box.  He  gets  a  few  pennies, 


286      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

a  dime  or  so,  and  if  caught  is  sent  to  prison  as  the  most 
contemptible  of  thieves. 

She  saves  two  or  three  or  five  hundred  dollars  annually, 
directs  how  other  persons'  money  is  to  be  spent  for  the 
needy,  and  gains  the  praise  and  respect  of  a  circle  more 
extensive  than  her  acquaintance.  She  neglects,  forgets— 
call  it  what  you  will — her  dues  as  a  committee  member. 

If  she  were  to  do  such  a  thing  in  any  club  in  New  York 
City  she  would  be  dropped  from  the  list  of  members.  She 
must  pay  her  annual  dues  or  get  out.  As  a  member  of  a 
committee  dispensing  the  funds  of  a  philanthropy  she  is 
pledged  to  pay  a  stipulated  amount.  That  is  the  first 
condition  on  which  she  is  selected. 

I  made  a  point  of  cultivating  the  acquaintance  of  per- 
sons handling  the  funds  of  five  leading  philanthropic  or- 
ganizations in  New  York  City.  All  five  of  these  persons 
assured  me  that  if  the  members  of  their  committees  would 
pay  their  dues  then:  organization  would  never  have  a  short- 
age of  funds.  One  of  these  women  told  me  that  she  in- 
tended to  give  up  her  position  because  she  was  sick  of 
working  with  such  persons,  devising  ways  and  means  of 
making  up  the  deficit  when  there  should  be  no  deficit. 

Yet  these  persons  have  the  supreme  effrontery  to  sit 
with  a  committee  and  dictate  how  money  contributed  by 
the  public  for  the  sick  and  needy  shall  be  spent.  If  they 
possessed  unusual  experience  or  a  name  of  value  in  draw- 
ing contributions  they  might  be  excused.  So  far  as  I  could 
learn  not  one  of  this  class  of  human  cooties  possessed  either 
— just  a  colossal  egoism  and  a  contempt  for  "those  people" 
by  means  of  whose  misfortune  they  seek  to  climb  to  social 
or  professional  prominence. 

Stealing  from  the  poor  of  the  slums  of  New  York  City 
means  in  the  summer  sick  men  and  women  and  little  babies 
shut  in  stifling  flats,  drawing  into  their  system  with  every 
breath  the  stenches  of  sweltering  weather,  their  suffering 


WOLVES  AS  SOCIAL  LEADERS  287 

and  dying  for  lack  of  ice  and  fresh  air.  In  the  whiter  it 
means  the  old,  the  sick,  the  helpless  starving  and  freezing 
to  death  for  lack  of  food  and  a  handful  of  coals. 

During  the  war  when  philanthropic  associations  were 
popping  up  like  mushrooms  and  hanging  out  their  signs  at 
every  street-corner  and  in  every  vacant  room,  a  means  was 
found  to  protect  the  public  and  see  to  it  that  our  fighting 
men  got  what  was  intended  for  them.  The  men  and 
women  who  do  not  pay  their  dues  as  committee  members 
of  a  philanthropic  organization  have  no  right  to  a  voice 
in  administering  its  funds.  They  are  stealing  from  the  poor 
and  deceiving  the  public. 


CHAPTER  XXin 

LEADERS  OF  THE  HERD 

IT  was  a  cold,  bleak  morning  during  the  November  of 
1920  that  my  work  as  inspector  of  dog  li censes  took  me  to 
an  old  tenement-house  on  a  cross  street  between  Avenue 
A  and  Exterior  Street.  On  learning  that  the  janitor  lived 
two  flights  up,  back,  east,  I  climbed  the  stairs. 

The  janitor's  eight-year-old  daughter  was  in  charge. 
She  was  a  polite  little  girl  and  reminded  me  of  a  plant  which, 
having  struggled  up  in  semidarkness,  had  gone  to  seed  too 
early.  She  thought  her  mother  would  be  back  soon,  she 
told  me,  and  held  the  door  open  for  me  to  enter.  Then 
placing  a  chair  near  the  cold  kitchen-stove,  she  invited  me 
to  sit  down. 

On  my  eyes  becoming  accustomed  to  the  duskiness  I  saw 
that  there  was  something  on  the  bed  in  a  little  closet  of  a 
room  that  opened  into  the  kitchen  over  which  the  little 
girl  was  hovering.  The  child's  anxiety  was  so  evidently 
urgent  that  I  instinctively  left  my  seat  and  hastened  to 
her  assistance. 

The  something  on  the  bed  was  a  fragile  little  scrap  of 
humanity  about  a  year  and  a  half  old.  I  am  not  a  trained 
nurse,  but  even  I  could  tell  that  the  spark  of  life  in  that 
frail  body  was  fading  rapidly  away.  Questioning  the  little 
girl  I  learned  that  she  really  did  not  know  where  her  mother 
was.  She  had  been  left  to  mind  the  baby,  and  that  was 
all  she  knew. 

The  filthy  conditions  of  the  flat  of  three  small  rooms 
would  have  made  me  know  without  seeing  the  little  girl 
that  its  occupants  were  either  Irish  or  Italians.  A  glance 

288 


LEADERS  OF  THE  HERD  289 

at  the  child  assured  me  that  they  were  Irish.  Knowing  the 
besetting  sin  of  that  race,  I  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  mother  had  gone  out  and  got  drunk. 

There  was  no  fire  hi  the  stove  and  no  coal  in  the  rusty 
tin  bucket  beside  it.  The  little  girl  said  neither  she  nor 
the  baby  had  had  any  breakfast.  It  was  so  evident  that 
the  baby  was  dying,  that  I  had  to  do  something.  I  rushed 
to  the  door  of  the  front  flat  on  the  same  floor. 

" Jesus!"  cried  the  Italian  woman  who  answered  my 
knock,  as  soon  as  I  explained  my  errand.  "Ain't  she  got 
back  yet?" 

Yes,  the  janitor  had  stopped  at  her  door  on  her  way 
out,  more  than  an  hour  ago.  She  had  said  her  baby  was 
better,  more  quiet,  had  not  fretted  so  much  during  the  later 
part  of  the  night.  She  was  on  her  way  to  the  grocery  to 
get  a  bucket  of  milk  for  the  baby  and  a  little  something 
for  her  own  and  her  daughter's  breakfast. 

However  untidy  an  Italian  woman  might  be  I  always 
found  a  heart  hi  her  bosom,  and  that  her  hands  were  ready 
to  help.  This  one,  while  talking,  jerked  up  a  milk-pail 
and  held  it  bottom  upward  over  a  cup.  Not  a  drop.  How 
greedy  her  children  were!  If  only  they  had  left  a  few 
swallows  for  her  to  heat  and  give  the  janitor's  baby.  Then 
scooping  up  a  panful  of  coals  she  hurried  after  me  and  into 
the  janitor's  flat. 

Turning  the  pan  of  coals  over  to  the  little  girl,  she  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  bedside.  Crooning  half  under  her  breath 
she  bent  over  the  still  little  figure.  At  first  it  seemed 
almost  gone,  its  breathing  was  so  fault. 

Throwing  at  me  a  swift  glance  of  consternation,  the 
woman  turned  on  the  little  girl.  She  must  get  on  her  coat 
— the  poor,  half-frozen  little  mite  was  wearing  the  only 
coat  she  possessed — and  run  down  to  the  grocery.  While 
talking  she  snatched  the  pan  of  coals  from  the  child's  hands 
and  proceeded  to  gouge  down  into  one  of  her  stockings. 


290   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

As  the  Italian  woman  drew  a  crumpled  bill  from  her 
stocking  the  door  of  the  flat  opened,  and  in  stepped  the 
janitor.  Her  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  both  hands 
concealed  by  the  ends  of  her  shawl.  The  Italian  woman, 
extending  her  hand,  demanded  the  milk. 

The  janitor,  throwing  aside  her  shawl,  displayed  a  short 
fat  candle.  She  had  been  to  church,  she  explained  com- 
placently, had  burned  a  candle  and  prayed  to  Saint  Some- 
body— I  did  not  write  the  name  of  the  saint  to  whom  she 
prayed  in  my  diary — for  her  baby.  Her  baby  would  get 
well.  Oh,  yes,  it  would  surely  get  well,  for  she  had  spent 
the  balance  of  her  money  for  another  candle. 

Then  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  dying  child, 
she  hurried  into  her  front  room,  and  having  lit  the  candle, 
placed  it  before  the  gaily  colored  picture  of  another  saint. 
While  she  was  doing  this  the  last  breath  fluttered  away 
from  her  baby. 

When  the  Italian  woman  told  her,  convinced  her  that 
the  baby  was  dead,  such  shrieks !  Shriek  after  shriek.  She 
alarmed  the  entire  house,  and  persons  passing  in  the  street 
stopped  to  ask  the  reason. 

I  know  negroes  by  the  hundreds.  I  have  known  and 
lived  among  them  all  my  life.  Of  them  all,  hundreds,  there 
was  only  one  who  would  have  done  such  a  thing,  pinned 
her  faith  to  a  burning  candle.  That  one  was  an  old,  old 
negress.  She  used  to  try  to  hoodoo  persons. 

Once,  about  twenty  years  ago,  under  the  steps  of  the 
ironing-room  at  home,  we,  my  brother  and  I  and  the  negro 
children  about  the  yard,  found  a  conjure-bag  of  her  making. 
It  contained  the  claw  of  a  ground-mole,  a  few  hairs,  said  to 
be  off  a  dog's  tail,  two  cow-peas,  and  a  scrap  of  bacon  rind. 

How  the  negroes  laughed  at  that  old  woman !  Young 
and  middle-aged  they  jeered  her.  They  asked  her  what 
she  thought  she  was  going  to  do  by  such  foolishness.  Who 
did  she  think  was  afraid  of  her  conjure-bag?  When  she 


LEADERS  OF  THE   HERD  291 

mumbled  angrily  back  at  them  they  only  laughed  the 
louder. 

Odd  how  one  will  change.  When  I  first  went  to  work  in 
the  slums  nothing  impressed  me  so  favorably  as  the  educa- 
tion of  Irish  children.  I  used  to  see  them  on  the  streets, 
in  the  tenements,  the  little  girls  in  white,  with  long  white 
veils  and  flowers,  and  the  little  boys  with  a  bow  of  bright 
ribbon  on  one  arm,  and  a  gay-colored  picture-card.  The 
faces  of  all  of  them  so  happy,  so  uplifted. 

I  do  not  recall  a  parade  during  which  one  or  more  of 
these  newly  confirmed  children  did  not  come  to  me  for  my 
congratulations.  As  a  member  of  the  Woman's  Police  Re- 
serve I  acted  as  usher  for  all  the  parades  that  took  place 
on  Saturday  and  on  holidays.  Besides  directing  a  boy 
scout  in  the  seating  of  persons,  it  was  my  duty  to  keep 
children  from  crowding  into  the  street  and  running  wild 
over  the  bleachers. 

It  was  while  doing  this  that  little  boys  and  girls  used  to 
take  occasion  to  show  me  their  cards — each  one  pointing 
out  his  or  her  name  among  those  of  the  class  printed  on  the 
inside.  Some  of  them  would  read  aloud  their  verses  to  me. 
All  of  them  seemed  supremely  happy,  so  sure  that  in  be- 
coming connected  with  their  church  they  had  done  some- 
thing of  which  they  had  every  right  to  feel  proud.  And  I 
still  fully  agree  with  them  in  that  attitude. 

It  so  impressed  me  at  the  time  that  I  wrote  Doctor  Percy 
Stickney  Grant,  rector  of  the  Church  of  the  Ascension  of 
New  York  City,  asking  why  Protestant  children  were  not 
brought  up  in  the  same  way? — why  Protestant  children 
were  not  taught  to  feel  at  home  in  then*  church  building  ? — 
why  they  were  never  on  such  charmingly  friendly  terms 
with  their  minister  as  Roman  Catholic  children  were  with 
their  priest  ? 

I  selected  Doctor  Grant  because  he  seemed  to  me  to  be 
the  only  Protestant  minister  in  the  city  of  New  York  who 


292      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

was  even  trying  to  understand  conditions  among  the  poor 
of  the  Greater  City,  to  learn  their  point  of  view.  I  am 
not  one  of  his  parishioners.  I  do  not  even  belong  to  the 
same  denomination. 

In  his  reply  he  gave  me  a  reason,  and  I  judge  that  he 
did  not  wholly  agree  with  me  as  to  the  desirability  of  Protes- 
tant children  being  so  trained.  Now,  after  seeing  to  what 
this  early  training  leads  in  the  slums,  while  I  do  not  think 
it  as  desirable  as  I  once  did,  I  still  feel  that  all  evangelical 
churches  miss  their  greatest  opportunity  when  they  neglect 
children. 

Among  the  many  snarls  in  which  I  found  myself  was 
a  memorable  one  brought  about  by  my  ignorance.  While 
on  the  staff  of  the  Bellevue  social  service  I  had  occasion  to 
call  several  tunes  on  the  same  family,  watching  the  con- 
valescence of  three  children,  all  of  whom  had  had  pneu- 
monia following  an  attack  of  influenza. 

The  mother,  an  intelligent  and  neat  Irishwoman,  com- 
plained that  she  could  not  keep  the  medicine  prescribed  for 
one  of  these  children.  The  youngest  member  of  her  family, 
a  two-year-old  baby,  persisted  hi  drinking  it.  She  had 
scolded  and  punished  the  baby,  but  in  spite  of  all  she 
could  do  it  had  drained  three  bottles  of  the  medicine.  As 
it  was  a  question  of  keeping  it  out  of  the  reach  of  the  baby 
and  yet  having  it  where  the  mother  might  easily  lay  her 
hands  on  it,  I  glanced  around  her  two  bare  rooms. 

"Here  you  are!"  I  exclaimed  joyfully,  and  reaching  a 
little  above  my  head  I  removed  a  little  plaster  figure  from 
a  little  shelf  hi  the  corner.  "This  is  out  of  your  baby's 
reach,  and  your  saint  can  stand  over  here."  So  saying  I 
stood  the  figure  on  a  corner  of  a  lower  shelf. 

That  was  a  terrible  mistake.  The  woman  snatched  the 
little  figure  and  placed  it  back  on  the  high  shelf.  No  saint 
would  ever  forgive  a  person  who  moved  it  from  a  higher 
to  a  lower  shrine — I  think  she  said  shrine.  Her  agitation 
was  genuine. 


LEADERS  OF  THE  HERD  293 

I  left  her  on  her  knees,  telling  her  beads  before  that 
little  unbeautiful  figure  of  plaster.  She  was  explaining  to 
the  saint  that  it  was  I,  not  she,  who  had  committed  the 
crime.  She  implored  the  saint  not  to  curse  her  or  her 
children  for  my  deed.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  she  didn't  call 
me  a  devil.  Another  woman  did,  all  because  of  a  scapular. 

I  had  learned  about  wearing  scapulars,  for  a  cousin  of 
my  mother  married  a  descendant  of  Charles  Carroll,  of 
Carrollton,  and  I  grew  up  with  their  children.  Of  course 
they  all  wore  scapulars,  so  beautifully  embroidered  that  I 
used  to  advise  them  to  wear  them  outside  their  clothes. 
And  while  this  growing  up  together  was  going  on  I  went 
to  school  with  Clarence  Horton. 

Clarence  was  a  son  of  our  nearest  neighbor,  and  at  school 
he  was  famous  for  two  reasons — he  wore  a  little  bag  of 
assafoetida  around  his  neck  and  he  ate  goose-eggs,  hard- 
boiled  goose-eggs.  Because  of  the  goose-eggs  nobody 
cared  to  trade  lunch  with  Clarence,  and  because  of  the 
assafo2tida  nobody  would  sit  with  him.  However  we  might 
be  enjoying  ourselves,  when  Clarence  joined  us  we  went 
elsewhere. 

During  my  service  as  a  social  worker  I  called  at  the  flat 
of  a  woman  who  had  been  a  Bellevue  patient.  Her  baby 
was  sick  and  she  had  not  had  an  opportunity  to  go  out 
and  get  the  medicine  ordered  by  the  doctor,  because  he 
had  cautioned  her  against  taking  the  baby  out  and  letting 
it  take  more  cold.  I  offered  to  hold  the  baby  while  she  ran 
to  the  corner  drug-store  and  got  the  medicine. 

The  child  was  feverish  and  very  fretful.  Soon  after 
taking  it  on  my  lap  I  noticed  that  it  was  tugging  at  a  dirty 
string  around  its  neck.  To  the  string  I  found  attached 
what  I  took  to  be  a  dirty  little  bag.  Instantly  there  flashed 
into  my  mind  memories  of  Clarence  and  his  bag  of  assa- 
fostida.  Snapping  the  string  I  dropped  the  whole  arrange- 
ment into  the  coal-bucket. 


294   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

When  the  mother  returned  I  explained  to  her  that  tying 
disinfectants  around  a  baby's  neck  really  did  not  do  any 
good.  And  I  told  her  that  I  had  taken  it  off  the  baby. 

The  woman  was  wild  with  terror.  She  snatched  the 
baby  from  me;  said  I  was  a  devil  and  her  baby  would 
surely  die  unless  she  could  remove  my  "spell."  Grabbling 
in  the  coal-bucket  she  fished  out  the  scapular,  and  in  spite 
of  all  I  could  say  or  do  out  she  went — taking  the  baby  to  a 
church. 

That  broke  me  all  up.  Respect  for  the  faith  of  others 
had  been  hammered  into  me  from  my  infancy  up.  We 
were  never  allowed  to  go  to  a  negro  camp-meeting,  because 
my  father  feared  that  we  might  laugh  or  do  something, 
even  innocently,  that  would  hurt  the  feelings  of  the  wor- 
shippers. 

Besides,  I  was  brought  up  to  respect  Roman  Catholics 
just  as  I  was  all  other  denominations.  My  father  was 
graduated  from  Georgetown  University  before  he  entered 
William  and  Mary.  And  my  brother  nearest  my  own  age 
went  to  a  Catholic  school  before  entering  college 

No  one  can  truthfully  accuse  me  of  animus  against  the 
Catholic  Church  or  against  the  Irish.  Besides  my  Carroll 
cousins,  some  of  the  best  friends  I  ever  had  were  Catholics 
and  natives  of  Ireland.  It  was  a  United  States  senator, 
the  owner  and  publisher  of  a  notable  newspaper,  who  gave 
me  my  "start"  as  a  writer.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland 
and  a  Catholic.  He  was  one  of  the  most  intelligent  persons 
I  have  ever  known,  and  the  kindliest  of  gentlemen. 

It  was  because  I  had  known  these  splendid  persons,  na- 
tives of  Ireland,  and  had  been  brought  up  with  such  a 
profound  respect  for  the  Catholic  Church  that  my  awaken- 
ing in  the  slums  was  so  tardy  and  so  violent.  To-day  the 
best  explanation  that  I  have  been  able  to  reason  out  is 
that  the  great  organization  that  did  so  much  to  Christianize 
and  civilize  the  human  race  has  become  like  Lot's  wife — 


LEADERS  OF  THE   HERD  295 

a  pillar  of  salt  looking  eternally  backward,  salt  that  has 
lost  its  savor. 

As  I  saw  the  Irish  Catholic  in  the  slums  of  New  York 
there  was  no  truth  in  them.  They  would  tell  me  they 
had  no  dog  with  the  animal  in  plain  sight,  usually  lying 
under  the  stove.  When  I  called  their  attention  to  it  they 
would  swear  by  some  few  of  then-  multitude  of  saints  that 
it  had  strayed  in  from  the  streets,  and  in  the  goodness  of 
their  hearts  they  had  fed  it  and  allowed  it  to  stay  and  rest. 
When  I  proved  by  the  janitor,  other  tenants  hi  the  house, 
and  by  the  dog  itself  that  they  were  lying,  they  were  not 
embarrassed,  not  at  all. 

There  was  no  use  getting  them  to  promise  to  come  and 
take  out  a  license.  I  soon  learned  that  there  was  but  one 
way,  making  them  understand  that  unless  that  license  was 
taken  out  within  a  stated  time  I  would  take  them  to  court. 
Looking  over  my  records  I  find  that  Spaniards,  Italians, 
French,  Bohemians,  and  even  Polacks  to  whom  I  gave  three 
months'  time  kept  their  word.  At  the  time  of  my  call  the 
worker  of  the  family  was  on  a  strike,  had  lost  his  job,  or 
had  sickness  or  some  other  misfortune  that  consumed  his 
earnings.  In  such  cases  I  asked  them  to  name  the  date 
before  which  they  could  get  their  dog  a  license.  There  is 
not  a  delinquent  among  the  races  I  have  named  on  my 
books. 

When  I  first  started  in  I  treated  the  Irish  the  same  way, 
but  they  soon  taught  me  that  it  was  casting  pearls  before 
swine.  All  the  rudeness,  the  only  rudeness  I  met  in  tene- 
ments was  from  persons  who  boasted  of  being  either  Irish 
or  Germans.  The  Germans  soon  got  a  change  of  heart. 
The  last  half  of  my  four  years  in  the  tenements  the  French 
themselves  were  not  more  courteous.  Rude  or  courteous, 
a  German  is  always  neat,  in  his  home  as  well  as  in  his  per- 
son. It  seems  to  me  the  longer  I  worked  in  the  slums  the 
more  I  discovered  in  the  Irish  to  laugh  at  or  deplore. 


296   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

I  write  of  them  as  Irish  because  they  were  continually 
assuring  me:  "I'm  Irish.  My  father  and  mother  were 
born  in  this  country,  and  I  was  born  here.  But  I'm  Irish, 
me  and  my  children,  too." 

The  little  music-teacher  who  lived  in  the  room  under 
mine  in  Miss  O'Brien's  Greenwich  Village  rooming-house 
explained  to  me  the  reason  why  the  Irish  have  a  contempt 
for  Italians.  I  told  her  of  having  stopped  in  the  Italian 
church  on  East  Twelfth  Street  and  having  seen  a  Liberty- 
bond  button  attached  to  the  garments  of  the  Virgin  and 
the  Child. 

"Did  it  mean  that  some  worshipper  had  made  an  offer- 
nig  of  two  Liberty  bonds?"  I  asked,  and  the  idea  seemed  to 
me  very  beautiful — combining  devotion  and  patriotism. 

The  little  music-teacher  tossed  her  head  scornfully. 

"We  Irish  Catholics  have  nothing  to  do  with  Italians," 
she  informed  me.  "See  how  they  allow  the  Pope  to  be 
treated.  You  wait  and  see  how  he'll  be  treated  when  he 
comes  to  live  in  Ireland." 

"Do  you  think  this  Pope  will  do  that?"  I  inquired,  for 
the  thought  was  not  only  new  to  me,  but  it  seemed  as  im- 
probable as  moving  St.  Peter's  itself. 

"It  will  be  done  within  five  years,  maybe  within  two," 
she  asserted  positively. 

Though  that  little  woman  was  the  third  generation  born 
in  the  United  States,  she  took  it  as  an  insult  to  be  referred 
to  as  an  American.  And  the  threats  she  used  to  breathe 
against  the  Democratic  Party.  Until  I  met  her  I  had 
fancied  that  all  my  fellow  citizens  with  Irish  blood  in  their 
veins  were  devoted  Democrats.  She  strangled  that  belief. 

She  was  something  of  a  character,  that  young  woman. 
She  possessed  considerable  musical  talent  and  the  promise 
of  a  good  voice.  Her  family,  with  much  self-denial,  had 
managed  to  send  her  to  Rome  in  the  hope  of  her  becoming 
a  singer  hi  grand  opera. 


LEADERS  OF  THE  HERD  297 

As  time  wore  on  the  people  in  my  district  got  to  know 
me  and  talk  more  freely.  I  soon  learned  that  the  idea  of 
the  Pope  in  Ireland  was  not  a  figment  of  the  music-teach- 
er's imagination.  I  was  told  repeatedly  that  within  a  few 
years  he  would  be  moved  to  Ireland. 

Soon  after  I  went  to  live  in  the  tenement  on  East  Thirty- 
first  Street  I  got  an  even  greater  surprise.  One  Saturday 
afternoon  a  small,  quietly  dressed  woman  appeared  at  the 
entrance  of  my  little  flat — the  upper  half  of  the  door  being 
open  she  stood  on  the  piazza.  She  asked  for  a  contribu- 
tion to  build  a  church,  and  explained  that  she  was  taking 
from  five  cents  up. 

Now  I  believe  in  the  moral  influence  of  a  church  build- 
ing. Even  though  the  minister  may  not  be  of  much  sig- 
nificance I  have  found  that  hi  nine  cases  out  of  ten  having 
a  church  in  a  neighborhood  lifts  the  tone.  While  working 
for  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  I  seldom  passed  a  church  in  the  tene- 
ments without  stepping  in,  even  when  I  did  not  have  tune 
to  sit  down. 

While  I  was  getting  my  pocketbook  the  little  woman  at 
the  door  told  me  about  the  church  for  which  she  was  beg- 
ging. It  was  to  be  the  grandest  in  the  world,  to  cost  more 
than  a  hundred  million  of  dollars.  It  was  to  be  located  at 
Washington,  D.  C.  Then  she  added: 

"The  Pope  is  coming  over  to  dedicate  it.  When  he 
comes  he'll  never  go  back." 

I  handed  her  twenty-five  cents  and  told  her  that  I  hoped 
she  would  see  to  it  that  I  got  a  seat  in  case  I  was  able  to 
be  present  at  the  dedication.  She  thanked  me  for  my 
contribution,  but  very  wisely,  I  thought,  refrained  from 
promising  me  a  seat.  And  I  refrained  from  telling  her 
that  I  was  not  a  child  of  the  Pope's. 

After  that  many  a  time  and  oft  I  was  assured  that  the 
Pope  would  come  to  live  hi  the  United  States.  For  days 
after  the  smashing  of  the  windows  of  the  Union  Club  the 


298   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

tenements  boiled.  The  Irish  were  in  transports  of  triumph. 
The  United  States  was  only  a  "  Greater  Ireland,"  and  the 
Pope  would  surely  come  over  here  to  live. 

On  my  inquiring  on  which  steamer  the  Pope  had  bought 
passage,  the  woman  who  had  been  giving  me  the  glad  tid- 
ings became  affronted.  She  haughtily  informed  me  that 
a  battleship  would  be  sent  for  him,  with  all  our  other  battle- 
crafts, great  and  small,  to  protect  him  from  the  English. 

"The  English  always  have  been  jealous  of  us,"  I  told 
her.  "I  know  they  will,  to  the  last  man  and  woman  of 
them,  swell  up  and  bust  with  jealousy  when  we  get  the 
Pope  over  here." 

"It'll  serve  'em  right,"  she  agreed. 

Miss  Stafford  once  asked  me  about  religions,  other  than 
Catholic,  met  with  in  the  tenements.  During  my  four 
years  in  the  underbrush  I  saw  and  came  to  know  many 
persons,  men  and  women,  whom  I  would  describe  as  "God- 
fearing." They  were  loyal  citizens  and  doing  the  best 
they  could  with  their  opportunities.  None  of  them  ever 
more  than  mentioned  their  church,  none  of  them  spoke  to 
me  of  knowing  or  ever  meeting  their  minister. 

One  of  these  was  the  woman  who  loved  much,  the  woman 
whom  Polly  Preston  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  and  come 
to  know.  Though  I  lived  in  the  same  tenement  with  her, 
talked  with  her  day  after  day,  I  never  heard  her  mention 
the  name  of  her  minister,  or  in  any  way  got  the  idea  that 
she  so  much  as  dreamed  of  his  ever  calling  to  see  her. 

I  used  to  see  the  man  who  preached  in  the  church  that 
she  attended — walking  down  Fifth  Avenue  exuding  wealth 
and  overeating. 

So  far  as  I  saw  in  the  slums  of  New  York  City  the  Protes- 
tant minister  of  the  Gospel  is  as  extinct  as  the  dodo.  There 
are  preachers,  at  least  one  for  every  Protestant  church. 
Protestants  living  in  the  tenements  sicken  and  die,  but  they 
never  dream  of  receiving  a  call  or  so  much  as  a  word  of 


LEADERS  OF  THE  HERD  299 

inquiry  from  the  well-fed  individual  under  whose  teachings 
they  have  sat  of  a  Sunday. 

During  my  four  years  in  the  underbrush  I  never  saw  or 
heard  of  a  Protestant  minister  in  the  slums  of  New  York 
City,  nor  in  a  hospital.  There  never  was  a  day  that  I  did 
not  meet  at  least  one  Catholic  priest.  During  the  influ- 
enza epidemic  they  were  everywhere,  at  all  times,  day  and 
night.  They  ministered  to  the  sick,  offered  comfort  to  the 
living,  and  buried  the  dead. 

Many,  many  times  while  I  was  doing  social  work  I  had 
Catholic  priests  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  assure  me  of  their 
willingness  to  help,  to  tell  me  where  I  could  locate  them. 
They  made  no  denominational  distinction.  Once  when  I 
was  calling  on  a  patient  at  the  Presbyterian  Hospital  there 
chanced  to  be  two  priests  in  that  ward  of  twelve  beds.  On 
their  way  out  both  stopped  and  spoke  to  me,  and  gave  me 
their  addresses. 

Several  times  I  had  occasion  to  call  on  the  services  of  a 
priest.  The  response  was  always  immediate.  I  never  had 
occasion  to  call  on  a  Protestant  minister,  for  the  Protestant 
who  finds  himself  or  herself  in  the  slums  of  New  York  City 
soon  learns  that  they  must  die  as  they  have  lived,  unat- 
tended by  a  spiritual  adviser. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  GALL  OF  THE  YOKE 

"THE  public  be  damned !"  snarled  a  successful  capitalist 
some  forty  or  more  years  ago,  a  capitalist  who  himself  had 
been  one  of  the  public. 

For  by  the  public  he  meant  working  people  and  all  who 
are  forced  to  travel  with  them.  Other  capitalists  and  near- 
capitalists,  imagining  that  his  expression  was  a  formula  in 
some  way  responsible  for  his  ability  to  get  money  from  the 
very  class  he  cursed,  adopted  it  as  their  business  slogan. 

As  a  slogan  it  enjoyed  a  long  life.  It  even  went  into  our 
politics.  There  are  persons  who  claim  that  it  was  for  the 
purpose  of  changing  that  habit  of  thought  that  Theodore 
Roosevelt  formed  the  Progressive  Party.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  the  working  people,  having  changed  it  somewhat, 
adopted  it  for  their  own  use. 

" Capital  be  damned!"  shouted  the  working  people,  and 
like  the  author  of  the  slogan  they  forgot  that  they  cursed 
the  very  thing  that  put  bread  and  butter  into  their  dinner- 
pails. 

That  was  the  condition  when  I  entered  the  underbrush 
that  November  morning  way  back  hi  1916.  The  four  most 
eventful  years  hi  the  history  of  this  world  have  passed  since 
then.  In  no  field  has  the  change  been  so  great  as  with  the 
working  people,  working  men  and  working  women. 

When  I  stepped  out  of  the  underbrush,  during  the  last 
few  months  of  my  work  and  life  in  the  tenements,  that 
slogan  had  been  scrapped,  thrown  into  a  waste-basket  and 
forgotten. 

"We  must  have  our  share"  had  taken  its  place  with  the 
working  man  and  the  working  woman.  "We  will  have 
our  share." 

300 


THE   GALL  OF  THE   YOKE  301 

"There  ain't  no  use  of  'em  telling  us  to  look  at  Russia," 
a  boss  carpenter  told  me  about  three  months  before  I  left 
New  York  City.  "We  are  looking  at  Russia,  looking  at 
it  close  and  constant.  That's  the  reason  we  workers  hi  the 
United  States  is  bound  to  win  out.  We  see  the  mistakes 
made  in  Russia,  and  we're  going  to  avoid  them." 

I  glanced  at  his  wife  and  saw  that  she  was  nodding  her 
head  hi  silent  approval.  Standing  over  the  roasting-hot 
cook-stove  she  was  serving  her  man  and  their  five  children 
their  lunch,  after  having  placed  a  plate  for  herself  in  com- 
pliment to  a  woman  visitor.  That  visitor  chanced  to  be 
myself,  an  inspector  of  dog  licenses. 

During  the  war,  when  good  food  was  so  hard  to  get  in 
even  high-priced  restaurants,  I  formed  the  habit  of  taking 
my  own  lunch.  In  a  little  while  I  realized  that  this  habit 
had  another  value  besides  that  of  insuring  me  pure,  cleanly 
prepared  food — it  enabled  me  to  accept  invitations  to 
meals  with  tenement-dwellers  without  embarrassment  to 
them  or  myself. 

The  day  to  which  I  refer  on  entering  their  flat  I  found 
the  family  in  the  act  of  sitting  down  to  their  midday  meal. 
This  was  not  my  first  meal  with  the  mother  and  school- 
children, though  it  was  with  the  father  of  the  family. 
Being  at  work  on  a  building  near  his  home  he  had  come 
in  to  lunch. 

"Do  you  think  wages  can  remain  at  their  present  level?" 
I  questioned. 

He  shook  his  head — his  mouth  being  filled  for  the  tune 
being  by  boiled  potato  and  roast  beef. 

"And  I  ain't  saying  that  we  wanter  keep  'em  as  high  as 
they  are,"  he  added,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak.  "Things 
can't  go  down  as  long  as  wages  are  as  high  as  they  are. 
We  wants  things  to  go  down.  It's  ridicklus  the  prices  we 
has  to  pay  for  the  things  we  eat  and  wear  when  we're  not 
at  war.  Food  and  clothes  oughter  be  plentiful  and  cheap, 


302      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

but  that  don't  mean  that  wages  has  got  to  be  what  they 
was  before  the  war." 

"What  does  it  mean?"  I  asked,  and  I  realized  that  not 
only  the  mother  but  every  one  of  the  five  children  were 
listening. 

"It  means  that  we've  got  to  have  our  share,  that's  what 
it  means."  Though  his  words  were  emphatic  he  was  not 
the  least  bit  rude,  for  my  being  a  wage-earner  insured  my 
sympathy  with  his  point  of  view.  "I'm  tired  seeing  my 
missus  skimp  and  slave,  and  not  have  a  second  frock  to 
her  back,  nor  a  second  pah-  of  shoes,  like  she  done  before 
the  war.  She's  got  glad  rags  now,  not  so  many  of  'em,  but 
I'm  going  to  see  that  she  gets  more.  Well,  she  can't  get 
more  if  the  builder  and  contractor  pockets  all  the  profits 
while  we  workers  hardly  gets  our  salt." 

"It  ain't  that  so  much — my  having  Sunday  clothes,"  the 
mother  put  in,  as,  having  helped  herself  to  a  boiled  potato 
and  gravy  she  took  her  seat.  "It's  the  children.  They're 
growing  up  and  I  wants  they  should  have  good  food  and 
a  chance  to  get  through  school  before  they  goes  to  work." 

"Through  high  school,  mum,"  the  eldest  girl  corrected. 
"I  want  to  be  a  teacher." 

Another  time  I  lunched  with  a  family  of  which  the  father 
was  a  plumber  and  at  table.  It  is  an  unusual  occurrence, 
or  was  at  that  time,  to  find  the  man  of  the  house  at 
home  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  except  on  Saturdays  and 
Sundays. 

"Yes,  wages  is  coming  down  some,  and  I'm  willing  they 
should,"  he  told  me,  looking  over  the  rim  of  his  saucer, 
from  which  he  was  drinking  steaming-hot  coffee.  "What 
I  ain't  willing  is  they  should  cut  from  the  bottom  more 
than  from  the  top.  There  ain't  no  sense  in  my  boss  pay- 
ing me  two  dollars  for  doing  work  on  which  he  collects 
twenty  or  more  from  a  house-owner.  'Tain't  a  fair  division, 
and  none  of  us  is  going  to  stand  for  it." 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  YOKE  303 

Again  the  education  of  their  children  came  up.  There 
were  four  sons,  and  the  eldest  was  attending  the  Stuyvesant 
High  School  with  the  intention  of  becoming  an  engineer. 
The  mother  explained  that  she  was  loath  to  allow  the  boy 
to  enter  for  this  additional  training  when  he  might  have 
had  his  working  papers  and  gotten  a  good  job. 

"  What's  the  use  of  us  working  if  we  can't  get  better  for 
our  children  than  we  had  ourselves?"  the  husband  cut  in 
on  her  plaintive  fears.  "I  always  wanted  to  do  something," 
he  explained  to  me.  "I  wanted  to  build  houses.  I'd  got 
a  bit  handy  with  a  saw  and  a  hammer;  they  was  all  the 
tools  I  could  borrow,  when  my  father  lost  his  job  and  I  had 
to  go  to  work.  I  had  to  take  the  best  thing  I  could  get — 
helper  to  a  sort  of  half-way  plumber.  For  a  long  time  I 
used  to  think  I'd  change,  but  the  chance  never  come  my 
way.  I'm  bound  my  boy  shall,  though." 

''We're  for  a  minimum  wage  if  they'll  make  it  high  enough 
and  cut  the  maximum  low  enough,"  a  young  Jewess,  an 
operator  in  a  shirt-waist  factory,  told  me  one  evening  when 
chance  brought  us  together  in  adjoining  seats  in  the  top 
gallery  of  a  Broadway  theatre. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  cutting  the  maximum  low 
enough?"  I  questioned. 

"The  manager  of  our  plant  gets  twenty-five  thousand  a 
year;  I  make  around  twenty-five  a  week,  piece-work,  you 
know;  but  some  of  the  girls  don't  get  above  twenty — can't 
get  up  to  my  speed,"  she  explained.  "T'other  day  the 
assistant  manager  let  out  a  hint  that  wages  was  to  be  cut. 
'All  right,'  I  tells  'im,  'cut,  but  begin  where  they  begin  to 
trim  a  tree — on  the  top.  Just  clip  off  a  hundred  a  week 
from  the  manager,  shave  off  fifty  of  yours,  twenty-five  of 
your  assistants,  and  then  I'll  let  you  take  one  off  me.' ' 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?"  I  asked,  hoping  that  some 
hitch  would  occur  to  prevent  the  curtain  from  rising  on 
time. 


304   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"Oh,  he's  a  snitcher.  He  was  getting  something  to  carry 
his  chief — feeling  our  pulse,"  she  smiled  back  at  me. 

"You  gave  him  something." 

"Sure.  I  gave  him  an  earful.  Next  week  we're  going 
to  have  a  meeting  at  the  house  of  the  girl  who  lives  nearest 
the  shop.  When  the  cut  comes  we'll  be  ready  for  them." 

As  the  curtain  went  up  I  reached  across  and  grasped  her 
hand. 

"Thank  you,"  she  whispered.  "Maybe  we'll  meet  at 
another  show  and  I'll  tell  you  about  our  fight." 

The  1st  of  October,  1920,  I  gave  up  my  position  with 
the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  and  applied  for  work  in  the  Store  Beauti- 
ful. This  is  reputed  to  be  the  largest  and  most  beautiful 
department  store  in  the  world.  I  had  been  told  that  its 
employees  came  nearer  receiving  a  square  deal  than  in 
any  other  large  shop  in  New  York  City. 

As  I  had  begun  my  four  years  in  the  underbrush  by 
working  hi  one  department  store,  of  which  I  have  never 
been  able  to  speak  a  good  word,  it  seemed  to  me  only  fair 
that  I  should  try  another.  Not  being  an  investigator  I 
wanted  to  make  as  good  a  report  of  conditions  as  I  truth- 
fully could. 

I  can  truthfully  say  that  conditions  in  the  Store  Beautiful 
are  far,  far  ahead  of  what  I  had  seen  and  known  in  the 
store  where  my  experience  began.  Instead  of  one  dollar 
a  day  I  received  seventeen  a  week,  which,  so  far  as  I  could 
find  out,  was  at  that  time  the  minimum  wage  for  a  sales- 
woman. 

The  one  and  only  fault  that  I  have  to  find  with  Store 
Beautiful  was  put  into  words  by  one  of  the  best  and  most 
highly  esteemed  salesman  in  the  department  with  me.  He 
had  held  his  position  for  considerably  more  than  ten  years, 
and  had  many  customers  who  would  allow  no  one  else  to 
wait  on  them. 

"They're  pressing  us  pretty  hard,"  this  man  remarked, 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  YOKE  305 

after  reading  a  notice  passed  around  among  the  salespeople 
of  the  department,  telling  them  to  report  at  a  certain 
corner  of  the  department  after  the  store  closed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  floor-walker  who  had 
handed  him  the  paper. 

"I  mean  that  they  shouldn't  ask  us  to  remain  after  hours 
— give  our  time  free — when  if  we  ask  to  get  off  early  they 
charge  us  for  it.  This  is  the  third  time  this  week  they've 
kept  us.  Our  time's  worth  something  to  us;  these  girls 
want  to  go  home.  I  want  to  go;  you  want  to  go.  They 
mustn't  press  us  too  hard." 

During  my  six  weeks'  service  as  a  saleswoman  in  the  toy 
department  of  the  Store  Beautiful  I  had  some  business  to 
attend  to,  and  asked  to  get  off.  My  request  was  granted 
none  too  graciously.  When  my  pay-envelope  came  I  found 
that  I  had  been  docked  one  dollar  and  seventy-three  cents. 
That  was  all  right;  I  expected  to  pay  for  the  time  spent 
on  my  own  business. 

A  week  or  so  later  the  department  was  turned  upside 
down,  getting  ready  for  the  Christmas  opening.  Every- 
body came  early  and  worked  hard  all  day.  When  closing 
time  came  there  was  so  much  to  be  done  that  an  appeal 
was  made  to  the  salespeople  by  the  floor-walkers — they 
urged  us  to  stay  and  help  get  our  counters  in  order. 

I  remained  until  nearly  midnight,  and  not  having  time 
to  go  to  my  little  tenement  flat,  I  was  forced  to  get  what 
supper  I  could  in  a  Third  Avenue  eating-place.  It  was 
not  much  of  a  supper,  but  it  cost  me  eighty  cents.  Count- 
ing up  my  tune  I  found  that  I  had  remained,  helped  in  the 
department,  just  exactly  the  length  of  time  I  had  taken  off. 
Naturally  I  expected  to  receive  at  least  as  much  for  my 
time  as  the  management  had  docked  from  my  wages — my 
work  was  done  at  night  and  the  tune  taken  from  them  was 
in  the  morning,  when  salespeople  are  least  busy. 

Seventy-five  cents  is  what  I  received.    Their  tune  was 


306   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

worth  one  dollar  and  seventy-three  cents,  mine  seventy- 
five  cents.  Now  that,  as  I  see  it,  is  the  crux  of  the  fight 
between  labor  and  capital  to-day.  Capital  wants  so  much 
more  for  itself,  its  own  time,  than  it  is  willing  to  give  labor 
for  its  tune.  Labor  is  sick  and  tired  of  that  arrangement. 

Next  to  the  condition  itself,  the  injustice  of  it,  the  chief- 
est  reason  for  our  social  unrest  to-day  is  Prohibition. 

So  long  as  workers  could  stupefy  their  senses  with  liquor 
there  was  a  chance  of  staving  off  the  day  of  reckoning  with 
capital  indefinitely.  Liquor  not  only  robbed  the  worker  of 
his  mental  power  and  his  will  to  do,  but  it  consumed  his 
earnings  and  left  him  too  poor  to  fight  to  a  finish.  Liquor 
caused  more  strikers  to  throw  up  the  sponge  than  all  other 
reasons  put  together. 

This  is  not  an  entirely  original  idea  with  me.  I  received 
the  germ  of  the  thought  from  one  of  four  prostitutes  at 
whose  table  I  once  ate  my  lunch.  These  young  women 
were  all  Poles,  immigrants  who  had  come  in  soon  after  the 
end  of  the  World  War.  They  all  spoke  English  sufficiently 
to  be  easily  understood.  If  I  could  approach  their  accent 
I  would  try  to  give  verbatim  a  part  of  my  conversation  with 
them.  Unhappily  that  is  beyond  my  power. 

When  I  asked  how  they  liked  this  country  the  prettiest 
of  the  four  shook  her  head,  the  tallest  one  made  a  face,  the 
shortest  looked  indifferent,  and  the  stout  one  replied.  She 
assured  me  that  had  they  known  that  Prohibition  would  so 
soon  become  a  law  they  would  never  have  come  to  the 
United  States.  That  was  the  reason  they  had  left  Russia. 
The  Russians,  most  of  them,  had  stopped  drinking  because 
they  couldn't  get  liquor. 

It  was  then  that  the  tall  girl  vouchsafed  that  the  Czar 
should  have  known  better  than  to  have  stopped  his  soldiers 
drinking.  He  should  have  known,  she  insisted,  that  so 
soon  as  the  people  got  sober  enough  to  think  they  would 
kill  him  and  put  an  end  to  their  oppressors. 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  YOKE  307 

"It'll  be  just  as  bad  over  here  in  America,"  she  added. 
"If  working  people  don't  have  liquor  to  keep  them  half- 
soaked  they  blow  things  up." 

Months  before  this  conversation  took  place  Miss  Staf- 
ford had  asked  me  what,  if  anything,  could  be  done  to  stop 
the  social  unrest  in  our  country. 

"Why,  yes,  as  I  see  it  it  might  be  done,"  I  replied. 
"Burn  all  the  public  libraries  and  turn  the  country  over  to 
the  Catholic  Church." 

Miss  Stafford,  being  a  Catholic,  I  knew  this  reply  would 
tease  her,  cause  her  to  dispute  my  assertion.  Defending 
myself  I  felt  sure  we  would  hit  on  a  more  interesting  sub- 
ject of  conversation.  Furthermore,  I  knew  that  though 
she  had  been  earning  her  living  for  years,  practically  ever 
since  she  reached  maturity,  she  belonged  to  a  class  that 
steadily  refuses  to  consider  themselves  as  working  people, 
a  class  that  always  takes  side  with  capital. 

For  work  has  become  so  disgraceful  hi  our  country  that 
no  woman  with  any  claims  to  being  gently  born  cares  to 
be  classed  with  working  people.  That  is  one  reason  why 
there  are  so  many  childless  married  women,  and  discon- 
tented women,  married  and  single.  Nine  cases  out  of  ten 
the  one  and  only  aim  of  a  girl  is  to  marry  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible— be  she  working  girl  or  human  cootie.  And  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  instead  of  trying  to  fit  herself  for  intelli- 
gent wifehood  and  motherhood  she  only  aims  at  catching 
a  husband,  a  good  husband  if  she  can  get  him,  but  a  hus- 
band she  must  have. 

This  eagerness  to  secure  a  provider  is  not  caused  pri- 
marily by  laziness,  but  to  remove  the  stigma  of  working 
for  their  living.  Most  women  who  do  not  marry  have  to 
work  for  a  living.  Working  for  her  living  in  our  country 
puts  a  woman  on  a  lower  plane. 

An  amusing  evidence  of  this  difference  came  to  my  at- 
.tention  while  I  was  doing  social  service  work.  At  com- 


308   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

mittee  meetings,  when  the  members  of  various  committees 
met  to  hear  the  reports  of  the  social  workers  on  the  staff 
of  the  Bellevue  social  service  department,  the  workers 
used  to  sit  on  one  side  of  a  long  table  and  the  committee 
members  on  the  other.  Under  no  circumstances  must  a 
worker  attend  one  of  these  meetings  with  her  hat  on- 
only  the  members  of  the  committee  wore  hats. 

At  one  of  these  meetings  when  reporting  a  case  I  hap- 
pened to  refer  to  the  committee  as  "you  women."  The 
expression  of  consternation  that  sprang  into  the  face  of  the 
individual  obsessed  by  the  possibilities  of  Hog  Island ! 
Realizing  my  mistake,  I  made  a  little  bow,  including  all 
the  members  of  the  committee,  and  corrected  myself  by 
saying  "you  ladies." 

How  the  Hog  Island  "lady"  beamed  on  me! 

"My  dear  madam,  if  the  good  God  made  a  lady  he 
forgot  to  mention  it,"  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue.  What 
might  have  happened  had  I  put  that  statement  into  words 
is  a  matter  of  speculation,  though  I  have  always  felt  quite 
sure  that  I  would  not  have  kept  that  job  another  two 
months. 

Yet  those  social  workers  were  a  picked  group  of  women; 
every  one  refined  and  well-appearing;  all  of  them  women 
of  unblemished  character,  as  well  educated  as  a  majority 
of  the  women  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  with  a 
few  exceptions  all  graduated  nurses.  Because  they  worked 
for  their  living  the  committee  members  objected  to  being 
so  much  as  mentioned  in  the  same  class — women. 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  should  marry,"  the  woman 
who  loved  much  said  to  me  one  day.  I  was  sitting  on  her 
door-sill  in  the  Thirty-second  Street  tenement,  with  my 
feet  on  her  little  piazza.  "My  sister  keeps  after  me  to." 
She  paused;  as  I  could  not  see  her  face  I  waited.  "She 
never  told  me,  but  I  know  she  don't  like  having  me  at  her 
house  so  much — not  when  she  has  company.  She  says  it 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  YOKE       309 

shames  her,  having  folks  find  out  that  she's  got  a  sister 
working." 

"Has  she  offered  to  support  you?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  no!  She  ain't  able  to  do  that.  Her  husband's 
well  off,  but  not  rich  enough  to  help  me  much  even  if  I'd 
let  her.  She  thinks  I  should  marry." 

"How  about  the  man?"  I  asked,  trying  to  make  my  tone 
flippant,  though  I  was  far  from  feeling  so.  "Have  you  got 
one  in  sight?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Her  tone  was  a  picture  of  dejection.  After 
a  pause  she  added,  almost  spitefully:  "He  riles  me  so. 
Every  time  he  comes  here  I  want  to  jump  out  the  winder." 
Another  pause.  Then  pensively:  "He's  a  good  man, 
though.  'Tain't  his  fault  I  don't  fancy  having  him  around. 
He's  sober,  never  touches  a  drop,  polite  spoken,  comes  of  a 
good  family,  and  makes  money.  His  wages  are  grand- 
eighty- two  a  week." 

Still  I  held  my  peace  though  I  knew  that  she  was  wait- 
ing for  me  to  speak. 

"I  ain't  like  my  sister;  I  never  was.  I  don't  mind  work." 
I  saw  by  her  shadow  that  she  glanced  around  her  little  flat, 
spotless  in  its  neatness.  "If  it  wasn't  that  folks  look  down 
on  you  for  working,  I'd  like  to  keep  my  job  till  I  die." 

"Why  don't  you  talk  to  the  man  as  you  have  to  me?" 
I  asked. 

"What  for?"  she  cried,  startled. 

"Sifted  down  to  fundamentals,  marriage  is  a  partnership, 
entered  in  for  the  purpose  of  founding  and  supporting  a 
home  and  rearing  children,"  I  told  her.  "If  you  were  to 
tell  your  manager  that  every  time  he  came  around  you 
felt  like  jumping  out  the  window,  I  think  he  would  look 
elsewhere  for  a  forewoman.  You  have  been  honest  with 
yourself,  I  want  you  to  be  honest  with  the  man  who  has 
asked  you  to  go  into  partnership  with  him." 

I've  had  girls  by  the  dozen  tell  me: 


310      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

"I'm  a  lady  now.     I'm  married  and  don't  work." 

And  I've  heard  dozens  of  my  fellow  workers  remark  on 
seeing  a  former  working-mate: 

"Ain't  she  lucky!  She  hadn't  been  workin'  no  time 
hardly  before  she  married." 

In  no  instance  did  the  speaker  mean  that  the  woman 
referred  to  did  not  work  at  home — only  that  she  did  not 
work  for  wages.  She  might  slave,  do  anything  and  every- 
thing at  home,  but  so  long  as  she  did  not  work  for  wages 
she  was  in  a  higher  class — a  lady. 

So  besides  demanding  a  larger  share  of  capital  accruing 
from  their  work,  Labor  is  demanding  that  the  stigma  be 
taken  off  work.  As  I  see  it  there  is  but  one  way  to  accom- 
plish this — for  every  woman  as  well  as  every  man  to  be, 
or  to  have  been,  a  wage-earner. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

WOKK  of  itself  is  not  hard.  It  is  the  conditions  under 
which  most  work  is  done  that  makes  it  a  hardship.  Work 
under  good  conditions  is  exhilarating. 

There  never  was  a  time  in  all  my  four  years  in  the  under- 
brush that  the  work  itself  palled  on  me.  It  was  the  con- 
ditions under  which  I  was  forced  to  work  that  made  it 
objectionable.  One  of  my  chief  reasons  for  liking  my  work 
as  an  inspector  of  dog  licenses  was  that  I  was  a  free  agent, 
not  bound  by  any  hampering  conditions.  Each  inspector 
was  given  his  or  her  district,  instructed  as  to  their  power 
and  limitations  under  the  law,  and  sent  out  to  get  results. 

Never  once  did  the  manager  of  the  A.  S.  P.  C.  A.  tell  me 
that  I  must  do  a  given  thing  hi  a  given  way.  The  few  times 
that  I  found  myself  facing  a  problem  about  the  handling 
of  which  I  was  in  doubt,  when  I  appealed  to  him  he  gave 
me  advice;  advice,  never  instructions.  I  was  always  a  free 
agent  at  a  living  wage.  Though  the  wage  could  never  be 
called  generous,  especially  for  a  man  with  a  family,  it  was 
sufficient  for  me  to  live  on  in  a  rooming-house  or  a  tenement- 
flat,  and  pay  for  a  five-hundred-dollar  Liberty  bond.  At 
the  time  that  I  left  I  was  receiving  one  hundred  and  four 
dollars  and  car-fare  per  month — quite  a  raise  in  four  years 
for  an  untrained  woman  who  began  on  six  dollars  the 
week. 

What  we  know  as  labor  unrest  is  caused  as  much  by  the 
conditions  under  which  workers  struggle  as  the  amount  of 
wage  so  grudgingly  paid  them.  The  untangling  of  both 
those  knotty  problems  is  in  the  hands  of  our  women. 

311 


312   FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

On  the  way  they  untangle  those  two  knots,  as  I  see  it, 
hangs  the  fate  of  our  country,  the  United  States  as  we 
know  it  to-day — whether  it  lasts  fifty  years  or  fifty  cen- 
turies. 

Now  I  know  by  actual  experience  what  conditions  were 
before  this  country  entered  the  World  War.  I  watched 
the  improvement  that  followed — larger  windows  made  in 
dark  rooms  to  improve  light  and  ventilation ;  when  this  was 
impossible  workers  would  be  moved  into  better  quarters. 
I  saw  lofts  that  had  not  known  a  broom  or  wash-pail  for 
years  swept  and  garnished  as  though  for  a  celebration. 

One  reason  for  this  was  the  coming  of  the  girl  who  didn't 
have  to  work  for  her  living — the  war-worker.  I  had  man- 
agers tell  me: 

"You're  an  educated  woman — ah — ah —  Why,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  happy  here.  Our 
loft  is  not — not  what  we'd  like  it  to  be.  Not  very  clean, 
you  know." 

"What  about  your  regular  workers?"  I  asked  him. 

"Oh,  they're  different.     They're  used  to  it." 

At  a  munition  plant  in  Hoboken  the  manager  of  a  de- 
partment jumped  at  me  as  an  applicant  for  work.  He  was 
going  to  "place"  me  at  once,  and  sent  to  the  office  for  a 
pass.  The  employment  manager  happened  to  be  in  a 
"cranky"  mood,  or  so  the  department  manager  explained 
to  me,  and  said  he  could  not  issue  a  pass  until  he  had  me 
investigated.  I  left  with  the  understanding  that  an  in- 
vestigator would  see  me  that  afternoon,  and  the  manager 
urged  me  to  report  early  the  next  morning  ready  for  work. 

The  investigator  did  see  me  that  afternoon,  and  because 
I  answered  her  questions  truthfully  she  learned  that  I  am 
a  college  graduate.  The  next  morning  the  employment 
manager  issued  me  a  pass  without  question,  but  when  I 
returned  to  the  office  of  red-haired  Mr.  Black,  the  depart- 
ment manager,  he  had  changed  his  mind. 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  313 

"Why,  you're  a  college  graduate !"  he  exclaimed,  leaning 
forward  in  his  swivel-chair  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  a  big  frog  ready  to  hop.  "You  wouldn't  be  happy  here 
a  day.  You  just  wouldn't  stand  it." 

Out  in  the  passageway  I  chanced  upon  the  girl  who  had 
conducted  me  to  Mr.  Black's  office.  When  I  told  her  that 
he  had  refused  to  give  me  a  job  she  stared,  then  nodded 
her  head. 

"I  mighter  known  he  wouldn't  take  you  on.  He  wants 
girls  he  can  chuck  under  the  chin  and  poke  in  the  ribs  and 
call  by  their  first  name,"  she  told  me.  "He's  foxy,  that 
red-head,  he  seen  he  couldn't  make  free  with  you.  You 
come  with  me.  I'll  take  you  to  the  employment  manager. 
He'll  give  you  a  job  in  the  office,  real  Gentile  work." 

But  I'd  had  enough  office  work,  so  I  refused  her  offer. 

When  I  applied  at  Store  Beautiful  the  employment 
manager  apologized  for  offering  me  seventeen  dollars  a 
week.  He  was  not  allowed  to  pay  more  for  an  inexperi- 
enced saleswoman,  he  explained.  When  I  accepted  the 
job  he  quickly  told  me  that  there  were  many  better-paying 
positions  in  the  store,  and  if  I  stayed  he  would  try  to  fit 
me  into  one  of  them.  Remember  this  happened  after  the 
war.  Employment  managers  had  learned  the  value  of 
educated  working  women. 

Now  I'd  as  soon  try  to  reason  with  a  herd  of  jackasses 
as  with  a  selfish  woman.  It  is  because  I  learned  during 
my  four  years  in  the  underbrush  that  American  women  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  selfish  when  they  understand  conditions  that 
I  have  written  this  book.  It  is  because  I  know  by  experi- 
ence that  American  women  are,  as  a  rule,  unselfishly  patri- 
otic that  I  am  adding  to  the  narrative  of  my  experience  an 
expression  of  my  opinion  on  that  condition  known  as  our 
"labor  troubles." 

The  United  States  is  to-day  the  most  powerful  nation  in 
the  world.  We,  its  women,  are  the  most  powerful  half 


314      FOUR  YEARS  IN  THE  UNDERBRUSH 

of  the  nation.  Again  we,  its  educated  women  of  native 
birth  and  lineage,  are  the  most  powerful  group  in  that 
half. 

It  is  up  to  us  how  our  country  is  coming  through  its 
period  of  labor  troubles.  Are  we  going  to  remain  human 
cooties,  forcing  our  fathers  and  husbands  to  beat  down  and 
rob  their  employees  for  the  sake  of  getting  money  to  sup- 
port us  in  idle  luxury? 

They,  the  men  of  the  United  States,  have  given  us,  their 
womenfolks,  the  ballot  and  Prohibition.  Not  because  they 
wanted  either,  but  because  we,  their  adored  womenfolks, 
clamored  for  them.  Every  profession  is  open  to  us,  every 
line  of  work. 

What  are  we  going  to  do  with  all  this  wealth  of  oppor- 
tunity? 

Our  sister,  the  working  woman,  believes  in  us.  She  ties 
her  faith  to  us — her  hope  for  her  children  and  their  future. 
Many,  many  times  I  had  women  of  the  slums  assure  me 
that  "rich  ladies"  fought  for  suffrage  that  they  might  get 
shorter  hours  for  working  women.  And  even  more  often 
they  told  me  that  the  fight  for  Prohibition  was  fought  and 
won  by  "rich  ladies"  for  the  protection  of  working-people's 
homes. 

During  the  war  we  showed  them  that  there  was  no  work 
we  couldn't  do,  and  wouldn't  do,  when  it  was  necessary. 
During  the  war  through  us  they  realized  what  work  was 
with  the  stigma  rubbed  out — work  was  a  badge  of  honor, 
idleness  a  disgrace. 

To-day  those  women  stand  between  us  and  chaos.  A 
slender  cordon  of  hope,  they  are  holding  back  the  surging 
multitude  of  unrest.  Their  men  have  ceased  to  believe  in 
any  method  of  getting  justice  except  by  violence. 

What  are  we  going  to  do? — measure  up  to  the  working- 
woman's  faith  in  us,  come  out  of  our  nests  as  cooties  and, 
taking  our  place  at  her  side  as  we  did  during  the  war,  do 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  315 

our  share  of  the  work.  Or  are  we  going  to  remain  human 
cooties,  let  that  cordon  of  hope  crumble,  be  swept  away  ? 

There  is  one  thing  as  certain  as  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
If  we  do  not  give,  it  will  be  taken  from  us. 

Were  I  a  girl  growing  up  to-day  I  would  demand  of  my 
parents  an  equal  chance  with  my  brother.  If  he  was  given 
his  training — for  trade  or  profession — I  would  have  mine — 
trade  or  profession.  I  would  insist  on  my  obligations  as 
a  citizen,  a  future  voter,  to  learn  the  condition  and  the 
needs  of  my  country. 

How  can  a  girl  vote  intelligently  if  she  spends  her  days 
debating  on  how  high  she  can  wear  her  skirt,  or  how  low 
she  can  cut  her  camisole  ?  That  time  is  passed.  We  must 
either  keep  step  with  progress  or  be  swept  away  by  the 
class  of  women  who  have  learned  the  lesson  that  we  re- 
fused to  be  taught. 

Only  motherhood — bearing  and  caring  for  a  living  child 
—should  excuse  a  woman  from  working  for  her  living. 


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